


turned up coat collar

by rayvanfox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beginning as the personal blog of John Watson post-reichenbach and morphing into a bit of a magical realism AU dealing with a dreamworld that mirrors reality, this story delves deeply into the emotional tie between john and sherlock. <br/>(it's also epically long, FYI)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - 14: fall thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> this is the archive of the fanfic blog turnedupcoatcollar.tumblr.com, which updates every weekday.  
> new chapters will consist of approximately two weeks of posts and will update every week (give or take).
> 
> special thanks to my most amazing beta ever, homosociallyyours, who has been more than just an editor, but a co-conspirator, a sounding board, and a font of marvelous ideas for months and months. (and luckily i've gotten her hooked enough to continue to be the biggest help ever for the forseeable future.) tucc would not be what it is today without my bean.

Day 1

“you know where to find me.”

I didn’t, tho. I had nothing to go on. I watched him bleed out and get buried and still didn’t believe it. I couldn’t spend more than 20 minutes alone in the flat without subconsciously waiting for him to walk in. I would think of something to text him and be half way thru composing it before I could stop myself. Mrs. Hudson made noises about packing up his things and getting them out of our rooms, but I wouldn’t let her. Even the skull and the knife on the mantelpiece were more comforting than creepy at this point. That damned bullet hole smiley face taunted me, tho. I swore it had a secret I couldn’t unlock. I wanted so badly to be able to deduce my way out of this puzzle. ‘The case of the missing detective’ was going very poorly, however. I had no leads. I didn’t know where to find him. Except in my dreams. Not that I ever remembered them, but I knew he populated them cuz when I woke up his image was burned onto my retinas as if I’d been staring at it all night. Every morning, his face behind my eyelids, as regular as the sleep crust in the corners. Faint memories of danger, running, darkness, corridors, cramped spaces, shadow menaces, my fingers stiff as if having gripped my gun. But never a sure feeling. Never a known plot. Never the balm of actually spending time with him in dreamworld, hearing his voice say my name, looking into his face—even if it had been blurry or not quite his—of feeling his eyes upon me. If the dreams can’t even help, what is waking life going to do for me? Nothing. Nothing stops the ache. I’ve considered everything. I’ve been tempted by morphine. By my firearm. By the mantelpiece knife, that seemed fitting. But something nags at the corner of my mind just like his face in the back of my eye, as if I’m forgetting something important. But I don’t have his intellect, his perception, his training, his single mindedness. His god-damned mind palace. I don’t know anything. Or I have no way of knowing that I do.

**

Day 2

I’ve gone over it one thousand fifty-eight times, give or take. I wish I could say it’s cuz I’m trying to figure something out, but really it’s just like tonguing a wound. I can’t stop, even though it hurts. Or maybe I can’t stop because it hurts. The pain from reliving the fall is sharp enough to make me gasp, but it helps me feel alive. The pain of living on after is dull and heavy and as close to death as I can imagine. It just makes me think of ways to get closer, to speed up the process of dying. Slowly has never been my way of choice. I was a soldier, for god’s sake. I went towards death, I wrestled with it as it invaded others, I defied it and escaped it and thumbed my nose at it for years. Death and I have been acquainted for a long time, but it’s only recently we have been on speaking terms.  
  
Yes, I talk to myself. Only in the flat, and not all the time, though it’s becoming more and more frequent. And I wouldn’t really say it was to myself, necessarily. It’s to death, mostly. Death and those who’ve died. I don’t sit around and pretend I’m talking to SH, don’t be so quick to put me in the looney bin. I just, sometimes, need to let death know that I watch him stalk me, I know he’s waiting for the right moment, and I promise I will let him know when that is. Sometimes I have to let him bring the ghost images of SH and JM into the room, just so I can banish them all at once. Sometimes he likes to parade through all the victims from our cases just to remind me of how close he was all the time. Sets them up like dominoes and tries to get me to knock them down. I refuse. If I’m not going to be the end tile, I don’t want to start the run. And I will not be pinned underneath the weight of those we learned from to save others. It’s not our fault the killers found them first, but it is because of us they didn’t find more. Try something else, death. I’m not biting.

**

Day 3

What is there to live for, you ask? The possibility that there is something out there to find. That there is a place to look, that I have a clue, or at least access to one, to crack this prison open. And let myself out. Or at least, let him in. Not death, he can go fuck himself. My one friend. The only one. The reason I’m here, in many ways, not the least of which is saving my life. He who is not a hero but would be if he allowed them. My compass. My crutch. My Sherlock. It’s only now that I’m left alone that I can claim him. Sad state of affairs, yes. Foolish to have fought it for so long, I know. Do I feel like an idiot that everyone else could see what I refused to? Of course. Do I feel ashamed, however? No. Never. Not for feeling like this. Does it tear me apart that it took losing him to come to terms with it? You know the answer to that. You can see it in my face: worn, grey, saddened beyond repair, but proud. I’m finding my way out.

**

Day 4

A confession: The name of this blog is in honor of SH, yes, but it’s also my new look. Does that sound deranged to you? It makes sense in my head, but I’m worried I sound like I might be seriously unhinged that I turn my coat collar up because of him. Is it even more ridiculous to admit that I sort of put it in the category of WWJD? I mean, not in the religious way, I haven’t started worshiping at the altar of Saint Sherlock, but when I’m feeling particularly lonely or upset or, you know, ready to let death take me on a little trip, I try to think about what SH would do. It helps. It makes him feel close. I know my cheekbones aren’t anywhere near his, I know the effect isn’t half as good, objectively. But it makes me feel cool. And dammit if it doesn’t help to keep despair at bay to feel cool sometimes. Keeps me off the ledge. Keeps me from being overwhelmed when going out in public. Helps me to deflect any news- people or gawkers, most of whom have given up by now, thankfully. Every day the news cycle is closer to moving on to some other scandal and leaving SH and JM in peace. I both pray for and dread that moment. When he leaves the collective consciousness, I will be the only one still haunted. Still believing. Still mourning the loss of the greatest man in London. My greatest friend. The fact that in six months’ time no one will remember the man who was their hero six weeks ago makes me want to weep. I guess he was right, we shouldn’t make people into heroes. It only leads to heartbreak. 

**

Day 5

The collar serves two purposes, really. One is to keep the outside out, and the other is to keep the inside in. I think I had an inkling of that when SH used to do it, that it was two-fold. He used it as a way of concentrating, blocking out and focusing in simultaneously. Though I wonder if he didn’t also use it as a way of advertising that there was something he wanted to keep hidden from others. Mystery this way, everyone! Sorry, no one is allowed in! He was quite vain, was Sherlock. But because it would never cross his mind to be self-conscious around his vanity, it was actually almost endearing. Didn’t make it any less exasperating, though. Especially when he used it to make me feel like I was on the outside.  
  
Anyway, it’s not like I’m trying to advertise that I have a broken heart underneath this coat. I’m just trying to shore up some defense against the bumps and shocks that comprise being a person in the world. There is a way of closing up inside yourself that holds everything in place. Sort of like an emotional tourniquet. Even if it doesn’t allow for room to breathe, at least it keeps you from spilling out all over some random person’s shoes. I don’t know why turning my collar up holds me together, except that it feels like putting a force field around the vulnerable places—the jugular, the carotid, the earlobe’s erogenous zone, the jaw, the throat, the windpipe, the voice box. All safe from harm. Also, there is something about the collar reflecting the sound of my breathing that helps me calm down. It’s a bit of a meditative thing, I guess. A way of looking inward…  
  
Sod it, I started this topic as a confession, might as well go all the way with it: one of the biggest reasons I like having my coat collar up around my face is that it reminds me of when Sherlock cupped his gloved hands around my jaw and ears as if trying to hold my memories inside my head, worried I’d forget what I saw. And sometimes, if I’m lucky, I can feel him again.  
  
The ghost of his hands, the reflection of his face, the echo of his voice…when he is that close, my heart beats normally. Otherwise it acts like it’s literally broken, the sinus rhythm lost in a chaos of wracked emotions. The only diagnosis I can come up with is that I feel far too much.

**

Day 6

speaking of feeling, something has been nagging at me this week. It might take me a while to parse it out, but here goes:  
  
JM said to him, “I’ll burn the heart out of you.” He meant it, and he tried his best. He had everyone in the world questioning SH, thinking he was a fraud. And it hurt him, of course it did. A consulting detective has very little else when his reputation is gone. And SH, though he talked of not caring what others thought, needed acknowledgment. I think that’s why he liked me so much, and resented Mycroft: I gave it, MH didn’t. But I think JM believed that acknowledgment = love. Or that it did to SH. It might have been tied up with self worth, or succeeding in his purpose in life, but it wasn’t the same as love.  
  
And yes, SH talked about how love was a bad idea, that ‘sentiment’ was a defect, but what he was really against were lust and romance. He was against clouded judgment. And a definition of sentiment is: ‘a thought influenced by or proceeding from feeling or emotion.’ Those thoughts couldn’t be trusted. Those thoughts—and feelings—he left to me.

**

Day 7

I know it. I’m not smart, but I’m definitely not stupid. He liked having me around because I felt things. Things he would never allow himself to feel. With me there, he could compartmentalize them, outsource them, if you will. I was his feeler. His love-er (not that way, don’t be daft). It is true that being around someone who felt things and who loved readily, was like a how-to immersion course for him, possibly the first one he ever had. And over time I had his respect, then I had his regard, and at some point, as he learned what it meant, I had his love. But love in the abstract—as a thought process, not as a feeling. Love without sentiment.  
  
Which basically amounts to friendship. Loyalty. He would tell you, (if he could admit to it) that it was the greek concept of ‘philia’ (one of their words for love, different from eros or agape, etc.) that he felt for me. I think I might have been the first person to show him what that could be like, and therefore was the first (and only) one to experience it from him. I guess he said it himself in Grimpen churchyard.  
A definition of philia I found is: “wanting for someone what one thinks good, for his sake and not for one’s own, and being inclined, so far as one can, to do such things for him”. This comes easily to me, and I feel this way all the time for SH. For him, however, it comes much harder. But I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. Believe me, there have been plenty of times that I’ve questioned his motives, but in the end I know that he was as demonstrative of this feeling as he was able.  
  
Point is, he was not without a heart, but the division of labor between the two of us left me with the lion’s share of that organ’s work.

**

Day 8

See, the thing about JM mistaking acknowledgment for love, is that he also mistook where SH’s heart was. I believe he thought that to make SH choose between himself and me, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, he would be tearing into the depths of SH’s being and breaking his heart. Maybe JM thought he wouldn’t jump and would then live with the pain in his heart at failing those close to him. That the ordeal of that would burn his heart out of him. Or if he did jump, that it would be after he realized all was lost, his reputation, his livelihood—his life, really—and all the people he cared about. That everything he held dear had been taken from him and there was nothing left. JM even took the precaution of taking away SH’s enemy by killing himself, therefore leaving SH bereft of any purpose, any recourse for revenge. What was left, but to jump? If he had a heart inside him, it would be broken before he hit the ground.  
  
But the thing is, he didn’t. SH didn’t keep his heart inside his own chest. He once described his brain to me as his hard drive. It being only so big, he kept just what was necessary in it. Well, some time ago he had taken the precaution of storing his heart on an external drive so he could have more free space. And guess who’s chest it just happened to live in? (I am the doctor, after all…) I’m surprised JM didn’t figure this out, really. That the way to burn the heart out of SH would be to destroy me. (This is why I felt that the night at the pool could have been the end game if JM had played it differently.)

**

Day 9

Or maybe he did. Maybe JM understood a lot better than I ever could, until now. And he knew how to win either way. If JM’s smear campaign had worked on me, that would have been a way to take SH’s heart from him, leaving him bereft without my belief in him. But I wouldn’t let it. So SH had to kill himself to break the bond that held him to his heart: Me. The part that is so unfair is that now here I am, I have this raw, vulnerable heart with no owner, left to feel so much it can’t allow it’s host to function. Was this what JM wanted? To make me bleed internally just as Sherlock did all over the sidewalk in front of St. Bart’s? This is the problem with continuing on. With living. Why I have a hard time wanting to do it anymore. As long as I’m ravaged like this, JM has succeeded. But I’m sure he would feel differently, I’m sure he thought that if I had turned my back on Sherlock then he, Moriarty, would have won. And that’s the only thing he got wrong.  
  
Because that is false, and Sherlock and I both know it. Knew it. (Damn tenses.) Sherlock knew that if he had to kill himself, the only way to save his heart was to disconnect it before shutting down. If he could sever the ties between us before he left me, my heart, and therefore his own, might escape intact.  
  
He told me to stop believing in him. There is nothing in this world he could have asked me to do that would have been harder than that. Did he actually want me to turn my back on him? Would it have saved me, and given him some peace? Was breaking our connection, betraying our friendship, the way to save Sherlock? The way to beat Moriarty? Did I fail my friend by not letting go?

 

**

Day 10

I’ve been holding my head in my hands all night, trying to decide if what I posted earlier is true. But I’ve been trying to go about this problem as if I were him. Trying to analyze it and logically conclude what happened, what could have happened, and why. I’ve been acting as if I were looking at the chess board set out between SH and JM. But that’s like me trying to access the hard drive to which I know I don’t have the passcode. The outsourcing only went one way. (no, that’s not true. everything he ever said to me was a master class in learning his methods, and I picked up small bits of them as we went along. But without his voice in my ear, I have no more access.) In any case, I, Sherlock’s heart, cannot pretend to act like his brain. I’m going to look again at this like I should have been doing all week: I’m going to remember how it felt. And empathize with how he felt.  
  
He knew he was going to die. He knew I held his heart. He knew I would never stop believing in him. (at least I hope he did, because if he didn’t, then he didn’t know me as well as I thought he did. As well as he should have, given his level of perception.) He called me to tell me in his own voice, with his own words, that he was a fake. He told me to tell everyone he knew. He was asking me to burn his identity, not his heart. JM started it, and SH wanted to know it would be finished before he went. But he also called me to hear me say, in my own voice, while looking at him, that I still believed in him. That I knew he was really that clever. That I would not be disloyal to my one true friend. I refuse to believe that he could have heard anything else in what I said, and I thought I heard his voice catch in gratitude when I spoke. Because I spoke from the heart, without thinking.  
  
I always start with my heart. I can’t help it. It’s the first thing that engages. And sometimes, when it has latched on to something, no matter how much information, how many logical arguments or persuasive details are put to my mind, my heart will still not let go. (It’s part of why my relationship with Harry is so messy, the other part is that she is such a bleeding mess). It will be the end of me, my heart. I’m sure of that. But I’m proud of it in this case. The last thing I said to my best friend, the best man I’ve ever known, the man whose heart I carry in my own, was that my own heart was his.  
  
Well, I didn’t say that, but he could deduce it. Or at least something approximating it. And that had to be something for him to take with him. Right? (please say yes…?)

**

Day 11

Just thought of something else regarding JM and SH’s fall. Maybe it wasn’t just his own identity Sherlock wanted me to burn. If the world thought that SH made up JM, then Moriarty wasn’t real. If he wasn’t real, then…then what, John? Does he win or lose then?  
  
Is it better to think a criminal mastermind doesn’t exist when he does, or to know that he does exist? If JM thought that ruining SH’s reputation, burning his identity, was how to destroy him, then maybe we are back to Irene Adler’s idea of every disguise being a self portrait? Maybe the last gamble to make SH suffer—pretending like JM didn’t exist—was the ultimate sacrifice for JM? He has to not exist in order for SH’s reputation to suffer. And if he doesn’t, then his genius doesn’t. Which makes this a catch-22, because if SH made him up, then everything that JM ever did that was even marginally amazing or smart was actually thought up by SH. It makes them one and the same person. But it also makes SH the genius, not JM. So there! Now JM’s legacy is nonexistent and he is dead. No acknowledgment for you, Jim! Nobody loves you. And even if SH is a fake, at least he is a bloody brilliant fake. (I wish that felt like a consolation to me.)  
  
Of course, there is the possibility that JM wanted to disappear. That burning his own identity is exactly what he needed. Maybe he isn’t even dead somehow. Or he has a right-hand man that can continue on in his footsteps. Or maybe he was secretly the right-hand man of someone else who gave him the notoriety—the spot light—for a little while, only to lead him like a lamb to the slaughter. Bugger. That’s a scary thought if there ever was one: that the spider is still at the center of the web.

**

Day 12

Black day. Not an easy one. This weather can kill, I swear to god. When it never really gets light and the sky is quietly weeping non-stop, there is nothing for it but to succumb to the misery. I couldn’t bring myself to leave the bed all day and ended up having what felt like a fever dream in which Sherlock was very angry with me. It was surprisingly devastating.*  
  
Managed tea and toast in the evening, but nothing else. I’m not ill, I just feel like I am. And I’m not mad, I just act like it. Now it’s after midnight and I can’t fall asleep. Given that I never really got up today, it makes sense, but I’m annoyed nonetheless. My mind just keeps jumping between life with Sherlock and life without. The before and after are becoming remarkably similar, except one was filled with longing for battle and the other is…(say it, john) the other is filled with longing for my friend. It’s not like I’m sitting here lusting after him or anything, though I know you want to hear that. The only way it’s physical is that I miss his presence. The feeling of him in a room…  
  
He occupied space in a way that no one else does, or at least, no other man that I’ve met. Some women can command the attention of a room by sheer force of will or personality or maybe just pheromones, but I’ve never witnessed a man take over a space like SH. He himself was an instrument so finely calibrated to all the energies and presences—the most minor shifts in attention, any changes in the atmosphere of a room—that by virtue of witnessing him work you felt energized to heighten your own senses in order to observe what he learned. A strange, almost electrified feedback loop, to be sure. The quality of his attention was so strong there was nothing that could compete for everyone else’s attention. I think when he would ask for quiet in a silent room he was actually asking for us to stop putting all our attention on him so that he could stop conducting energy and start measuring it.  
  
Long story short, there is nothing like sharing space with a super-conductor, and my life has been sapped of energy now he is gone. Part of me loves the freedom to focus on whatever I wish—not always bending to his magnetic will—but part of me feels like a flower that grew toward the sun and then got moved indoors, making the shape I’ve become a meaningless mockery of purpose.  
  
*the dream: we were in the main room of our flat, and I started arguing with him about something trivial and domestic—dishes or something—but it quickly turned into him arguing with me over something about a case, something I had fouled up, something I hadn’t been quick-witted enough to catch, and he was balling me out with more passion than I’d ever witnessed before. As if it wasn’t just about the mistake anymore. As if he was both highly amused and very upset at my stupidity. But it also felt more personal than just solving a case, for both of us. He seemed almost hurt by whatever I had done, or failed to do. And his words jabbed into my chest like a knife. I woke up gasping, hand over my heart as if I’d been injured, his voice echoing in my ears.

**

Day 13

I have no purpose. SH was my purpose. You might think I should say, ‘SH gave me purpose’, but that’s not quite true. It was originally, he gave me something to do, gave me a reason to get up in the morning. But it was the same purpose and reason that drove his life, and soon the line blurred between his purpose—our purpose—and him. When he said he was married to his work, he was lying. He wasn’t married to it, he had become it. This is why I wanted to punch Donovan in the face when she tried to tell me SH had committed JM’s crimes. (I had to make do with the chief superintendent)  
  
Sherlock was his work. And his work was to solve crimes. By any means necessary, yes. Breaking the law was fair game, certainly. But only in the service of solving the case. If JM is a spider sending out threads all around the world, SH is the raven that finds all the scattered string and brings them back to create a nest. Or, recreate it. If JM is the man who sets off a bomb, SH is the one who tries to piece all the blown bits back together. SH is a source-seeker. He wants nothing more than to get back to the beginning, figuring out all of the hows in order to get to the why. Or vice versa, sometimes. He is a puzzle solver, not a puzzle creator. Creating them would never cross his mind. What’s the fun in that?  
  
But his complete immersion into the role of source seeker/puzzle solver/re-creator meant that he had become indistinguishable from the solving, seeking and recreating. Our purpose was solving cases. But having a case to solve meant Sherlock solving it. My purpose was to aid that process any way I could, which meant helping SH in whatever way he needed. That makes it sound like I was his servant, but that wasn’t it. It was more that my purpose became doing what it took to keep him running at full capacity so that he could get on with the case. And as we spent more time together, as we got closer, I got better at reading him—diagnosing, even anticipating—and in the end I realized it was more like I was his doctor. And he, being my only patient, was my purpose. And now I have no one to take care of. (good God, I’m pathetic. Shoot me now.)

**

Day 14

Speaking of shooting, I gave all my ammunition to Mrs. Hudson, but I keep the gun close at hand. And yes, I’m fine with the fact that this doesn’t make any sense. The weight of it is comforting, but the temptation to use it is strong. And sometimes that damned smiley face is just asking for another slug in the mouth. I’m starting to understand how SH used to act out when he was bored. It’s not boredom that’s doing it to me, though. It’s more like despair. Anger. Feeling lost. Feeling loss. I should ask Lestrade if I can visit the Yard’s firing range someday when it’s unbearable. Maybe it really would help. Maybe I should ask Lestrade for a job. Not a case, no freelancing, an actual job on the force. Could he do that? Would he? Could I bear it? Maybe not as a policeman or detective, but as a medic? Or I guess I could get certified as an EMT, or something…  
  
I think I’d be worried about nightmares. Flashbacks. I can’t get his bloodied head out of my own already, if I was around wounds and traumas everyday, would I ever heal from my own? I know I just this last week logically argued my way through why SH had to die like he did, but dammit, I can’t quite forgive him for making me watch. How heartless can you get? (huh, right.)


	2. day 15 - 25: dreaming

Day 15

found this quote online today: 

“I know why we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us. I also know that if we are to live ourselves there comes a point at which we must relinquish the dead, let them go, keep them dead.” -Joan Didion

if only i could do this…

but i can’t. i can’t figure out how to let go. there is something inside me that won’t let me be done. won’t let me move on. something about him that is still clinging to me. i know everyone would say it’s because i won’t leave our flat. but that’s the effect, not the cause. i know you won’t believe me when i tell you it’s not denial. it’s loyalty. i can’t explain it any better than that. i would never leave him to fight a battle alone. ever. and i can’t leave him alone now.

i believe in Sherlock Holmes. and he trusted in that belief. if it means anything it has to survive beyond death. and that means not letting go.

**

Day 16

He’s a good distraction, Mr. S. Holmes. I can sit by the hour and think about him, write about him, allowing myself to live outside of my own skin for a while, to take up residence inside of him, teasing apart every aspect of him, using my own powers of observation to understand him as deeply as possible. That’s something I never really allowed myself to do when he was right there in front of me. Now I find it consuming. It’s painful, but it’s a good pain. A life-affirming pain. It passes the time and makes me feel like I’m doing something.

But I’m not. I’m barely living, really. I don’t leave the flat much, I don’t eat much, I get in black moods I can’t shake, I sleep either all the time or never. Mrs. Hudson muttered something under her breath the last time she was tidying up the flat that I sounded like ‘…worse than Sherlock.’ I know she didn’t mean it, but I took it as a compliment anyway.

Did make me wonder if I’m trying to lessen the pain of missing him by becoming like him. At least I haven’t started to play his violin. Also, I still keep my heart in my chest. Though god help me, if I could figure out how to excise it and still survive, I would start the procedure, stat.

**

Day 17

I. O. U.

What is it? There is this big graffiti piece on the side of a building near our house—I mean, near 221B—that is the letters I.O.U. with huge wings around it. It’s gorgeous and arresting and feels portentous. I wish I’d noticed when it appeared. I saw the apple JM ate when he visited the flat. I heard SH mutter the phrase once or twice in those last days. I Owe You what?

I know what I owe him. Everything. But what could JM owe SH or vice versa?

Could it be an acronym for something? A code?

*sigh*

Why do I pretend I can be as smart as Sherlock, when I clearly lagged behind him so often? It got so bad it actually just stopped being embarrassing after a while. Mostly because he got such joy out of illustrating things for me, of course, with a small amount of lording it over me that he was quicker than me. There was nothing to do but submit to it though, because he really was that clever…

…There is no way it was a magic trick. Not for the whole time we lived together. That charade would be impossible to keep up, and though I’m not the sharpest tack in the box, he wouldn’t be able to fool me for that long, right? If so, he’s still pretty much a genius, just of deception instead of detection…

NO.

Stop, John. You are doubting him. You might not see things clearly, but you do feel them. And yes, there is more of a margin for error with that method, but you know him. You have seen him in every mood, every state of being, you know his ways of functioning almost better than he does. You can read his emotions—which he has, he is just infinitely more subtle with them than normal people—and you know he trusts you. And you can feel deep inside you that you can trust him. There is no way, no way that he is a fraud.

Was.

Was a fraud. (bloody hell.)

Fuck you, Moriarty. I can’t believe you can still mess with me from beyond the grave. Just because you, the despicable human, died, doesn’t mean the abhorrent ideas you planted aren’t still growing strong and insidious. If I could kill your damned idea, I could die a happy man. And one with a clean conscience. One who never questioned his best mate.

**

Day 18

I’m back to the beginning: nothing ever happens to me. It hasn’t bothered me until now because so much had happened all at once that processing it was a full time job. But now I’m back to where I was when I first came to London: injured, alone, and fiending for an adrenaline fix. Or at least a distraction. I’m too heartbroken to try dating. I mean, I’ve thought about it, but I’m pretty sure I have the dating radar equivalent of a ‘damaged goods’ stamp on my forehead. No girl will get within 15 feet of me. And that’s probably a good thing…

…Trying to not think too hard about the implications of Jeanette’s statement at Christmas. When she implied that I was a bad boyfriend to her because I was such a good boyfriend to Sherlock. Trying to not wonder if other people’s gaydar isn’t as off as I used to believe. I know I got quite exasperated about it. That people assumed they saw something that wasn’t there.

I’ve now come to terms with the fact that there was something there, that we did love each other. That our bond was more than that of colleagues, or flatmates, or even simply friends. That we were bound together by something I can’t name without cheapening it. That we are bound by it still.

What I haven’t come to terms with is the idea that, if I could feel this way about SH, could I feel it about another man? Or was he special? (I mean, of course he was special, but in this way, for me?)

Never mind. I don’t want to think about this. It hurts a lot more than I thought it would.

Anyway, Sherlock never used dating as a distraction. Though I’m not about to start experimenting with body parts all over the kitchen just to feel like him. But maybe I should go see Molly. Or Greg. Or even Mycroft.

Or maybe I’ll just sit here curled up in the armchair staring out the window at that graffiti…

**

(Day 18 cont'd)

…just woke up from a dream that I was flying. Well, not me, really. It was Sherlock who had the wings. The ones from the iou image. I was just walking along Baker Street one afternoon and he came swooping down and grabbed me, hauling me up into the air. I only knew it was him because he spoke into my ear, if I’d tried to turn around he would have lost his hold on me. All he said was, “Hello, John. I’ve been looking all over for you. I want to show you something.”

Somehow he was strong enough to hold me around the torso from behind so I could look down on the streets and houses as if I were the one with the wings. We flew over Regent’s Park, diving, climbing and circling, taking in the view. The acrobatics, I felt, were at least partially for SH to get accustomed to the usage of the wings. And when I say ‘I felt’, I mean it. Being pressed up against his chest I could feel when he strained to pump the wings, and when he could relax into a position that allowed for gliding. Also, we were both highly sensitive to the air currents and how they were helping or hindering our progress. I wanted to offer my assistance somehow, but knew it was impossible to do so without just being in the way, or being put down. So I just concentrated on being as light and easy to carry as I could.

But it was so exhilarating I soon lost all consciousness of anything but movement and light and speed and air. I’ve always hated roller coasters but my stomach did none of it’s normal flips even when we did some. The higher we climbed, the lighter and happier I felt, but the dives toward the park were surprisingly enjoyable. Not once was I worried I’d fall or we’d crash. Implicit and total trust in someone is much easier in dreamworld, but it has never really been hard for me with SH (don’t know what that says about me, given that no one else felt that way about him, even his brother…).

Anyway, when we glided low over the zoo all the birds flew out of the aviary to join us in a big synchronized wind dance in the setting sun. It didn’t take too many loops and pirouettes before it was clear how tired SH was. I pointed to a big spreading oak standing right near the wide open area we were playing above and he nodded, his curls brushing up against my ear, and landed us both on a sturdy top branch to silently watch the rest of the brightly tinged ‘flock’. They continued winging about for some time through the golden light that was on a slow burn through the palette from ochre to umber. It was a sight, with things like flamingos and owls, pelicans and macaws, massive dark vultures and little vibrant tropical birds, and the startling scarlet ibis, all swirling around each other in some complicated choreography. It would have been literally breathtaking if we hadn’t already had to catch our wind from flying around with them.

It was a wonderful sight, but I kept being distracted by SH and his wings. Getting a proper look for the first time, I realized it wasn’t strange at all to see him this way. Of course he would have a pair of bleeding huge, dark and somewhat scruffy wings. Of course. As he sat, or perched, on the branch next to me he kept them open but not fully spread, possibly using them for balance, one arched behind my back creating a bit of a shield from the wind. It was far from touching me, more than a foot away, but the heat coming off it was palpable. And the smell was exactly like his coat after he’s been out running about in the rain—a damp, sweaty animal scent that was both familiar and alien, but reassuringly alive. He sat silent and still like a living gargoyle—imposing with a hint of menace—but flushed and beautiful and the opposite of stony.

“This was what you wanted to show me, then?” I said this to his profile, backlit by the bedding sun.

“More or less.” He flicked his eyes to me and away again. I went back to looking out over the park.

“Thanks. It’s wonderful. I owe you.”

“Owe me?” He asked this softly, with a purely inquisitive tone.

“Did I say owe? I meant miss. I miss you, Sherlock.”

“I know, John. I miss you too.”

As the light died and smeared the horizon with a dull inverted rainbow, I moved further into his warmth and rested my head on his shoulder. His wing crooked closer around me and I thought I could feel him humming, soft and low. I drowsed and closed my eyes, only to wake up in bed, the memory of his heat flushing my cheeks. (I thought I’d fallen asleep in his armchair…)

I do owe him, but how can I even begin to trace everything back to the start so I can understand the full extent of my debt? And then, even if I manage to do that, how could I ever attempt to repay him?

**

Day 19

my sleep schedule is utterly and truly fucked. I’m not even a diurnal creature anymore. I’ve turned into a cat or something. Well, maybe a dog, I don’t sleep 20 hours a day. Yet. I’ve got nothing to do and all the time I want to do it in. I do everything I can not to leave the house, and I really don’t have to.

After the case of the blind banker SH set up a joint account for ‘the baker street boys’—the unofficial name of our partnership—and the money we got from our cases went into that account, which gave us each a company card. We paid for rent, food, travel and any other case-related expenses with that account, which compared to our income as we became more well known, was a drop in the bucket. In just the six months leading up to JM’s break-in and trial, half of the cases we took paid at least five figures. The other half were the high profile ones that landed us in periodicals, and with things like cufflinks.

Upon SH’s death the account was closed and split down the middle, (something I protested but was written into the rules of it’s dissolution) his half going to Mycroft, mine into the account I had already been able to pad with MH’s stipend for the regular check-ins I performed. SH’s will bequeathed his things to me and his financial and legal situations to MH. His case file cabinet, however, went to Molly Hooper. That surprised me.

Anyway, point being, I could easily just not work for quite some time—many months, I’m sure—even after having paid Mrs. Hudson for rent and housekeeping duties (the latter of which fee I had insisted on sometime near the end of our first year) for the whole year in advance. There was no question of finding another flatmate. No reason, no desire, no interest. I’m comfortable as I am here, alone with his things. And yes, comfort leads to sloth, but I’m not even sorry for the hermit I’ve become. It’s better this way. No one wants to see me anyway. Greg has stopped calling, Harry never started. Molly has been sweet but is somewhat distant and ‘busy’, I won’t intrude on her own grieving. I’ve thought about calling Mike Stamford, but all he’d want to talk about is the old days at St. Bart’s and all I’d want to talk about is Sherlock.

So there you have it. Alone all the time unless I’m dreaming, so why not dream all the time?

**

Day 20

Maybe I am turning into a cat. The best part of my day is when I’m asleep. Mostly because he’s started to show up in my dreams—really show up and spend time with me—instead of just teasing me with his image flitting around the corners. He doesn’t always have wings, but he does often enough that I actually ventured out onto the street yesterday to take a picture of that graffiti piece before someone decides to paint or tag over it. I’ve printed it out and posted it on the mirror in the living room, as if it were evidence in a case. Though I guess it is, maybe? ‘The case of the missing detective.’ Wish I could figure out how to solve that one.

The crux of the problem is, he’s not missing, John. He’s dead. You have to get that through your thick skull, and your even thicker heart. It’s actually helped, writing things out here, to be able to cope. I’m getting better at believing it. At least while I’m awake. When I’m asleep it’s a whole other story. Literally.

In dreamworld, Sherlock is alive and well. Moriarty was never let out of prison, in fact, he hung himself when he wasn’t acquitted. SH is busy most of the time outside the flat, frequently not even sleeping at home. I still don’t leave much, except that we go out to eat sometimes when he’s not on a case and will actually order food and nibble at it. (He says he needs to ‘travel light’ which means that putting on weight will make it harder to fly.) When he does spend time in the flat we drink tea and talk, and he is very relaxed. The manic boredom is gone but a bit of melancholy has crept in. He says my name often without a follow-up statement and I wonder if there is something he is not telling me. I’m happy staying at home, glad to be free of the stress of working on cases, though SH still talks through his deductions with me, bouncing his theories off me, listening to and considering (and then of course dismissing or disproving) my questions, comments and suggestions. When he doesn’t have time to come home we conduct these sessions via video phone or skype because it doesn’t work as well if we can’t see each others’ faces.

And I don’t work very well if I can’t see his face every night. I’ve taken to sleeping in his chair or his bed. Sometimes the couch. I still use my room, all my clothes are there, but I sleep better in places on which I can imagine I still see the outline of his body. That way I can curl up into it’s shadow, conjuring it’s warmth, and ease off to sleep.

In my own bed it’s a constant battle just to close my eyes. Restless fatigue, chill, and misery have taken up residence in those sheets. I think death spooned me one too many times up there. Now sometimes I wake in SH’s bed with the shadow of wings in the periphery, as if I had a pair of my own that curled around me as I slept.

**

Day 21

Is it even right to say that I feel more sane when my major reality is the one that comes from dream state? I don’t interact with people in waking life anymore, but I feel more calm and healthy than I have in a while. This is probably the quintessence of the denial stage of grief or something, that I refuse to participate in a world where he isn’t, so I just make up my own where he is, and live there. Okay, yeah. That’s fucked up. But really, I don’t even care.

I don’t think I was as clear as I should have been about how utterly shattered I was after the fall.

The Fall.

I was not really functional for a while. And when I say ‘functional’, I mean ‘coherent’, and ‘sane’, really. It’s almost shocking that I managed not to do away with myself that first couple weeks. I started to have a little more sympathy for Henry Knight in his torment, slowly losing his sanity out in Dartmoor.

I’m doing a lot better now that the ghosts in my life refrain from entering the real world and stay obediently in dream land. When death was stalking me like a spurned lover and I was hallucinating every dead person I’d ever seen in my three decades of life, (a significant number, more than three times that) I was, understandably, less able to think like a human being—more just like a hunted thing.

A drunken hunted thing. I didn’t mention that, either, I guess. I was more or less piss drunk every day for a fortnight. Judge all you want, but I can tell you it was necessary. I believe to this day that it was the only way to survive during that time. Had I not been drinking, I think death really would have been able to take me. Most likely, through my dreams.

 

**

Day 22

The thing is, when you drink enough, you don’t dream. The alcohol actually inhibits your ability to enter into REM sleep. If we take SH’s metaphor of the brain being a hard drive a bit further, then dreaming is like defragging said hard drive. It allows all of the random images and thoughts and emotions of the day to get filed away properly so your subconscious and conscious minds can get on with processing everything in an orderly fashion. I went without defragging my overloaded hard drive for a long time, and when I finally dreamt, it was the worst nightmare I’ve ever had. Mostly because it was just enough like real life to completely undo me (maybe I’ll write about it sometime). But it was preferable to dealing with all the guilt-ridden dreams and minor nightmares that would have come every night, right after the fall. They would have pulled me so far under I never would have been able to breathe again. I know what that’s like. It’s what happened when I was invalided. The fortnight in the field hospital after I was injured was the most disturbing I’d ever spent, more destructive to my sanity than the entire war had been so far. Those dreams can still send me over the edge when I think about them. And waking up from them was even worse. It was in waking up from a particularly paralyzing one of those dreams—one about losing my best mate in an explosion—that I woke into the nightmare of my leg not working. (and here I am, in a cold sweat. Fuck.)

However, right now my hard drive is fast and clean and efficient because it gets defragged all the time. And I feel loads better for it.

 

**

Day 23

I’m starting to wonder if the only stimulus my brain has to process during dreamstate these days is what I dream about. I think I might be hitting a weird feedback loop at this point. My dreams are becoming referential to each other. Conversations span over multiple nights. Memory in my dreams is becoming a more prominent feature. And I swear I’m starting to dream things to happen during the day, or vice versa. Or something else. Maybe I’m sleep walking. Or becoming a somnambulist. Never quite awake, never quite asleep. But the dreams are so real. And coherent. And almost logical. They conform to most things in reality, (except that whole flying thing) but I seem to understand them less and less. Mostly what I don’t understand is how much they feel like real life. And real life is starting to feel like a dream because it’s starting to lose its logic. Or at least its causality.

Either that, or I’m losing my memory. Earlier, I wanted to make tea. It was shortly after I woke up from an intense nap that entailed a beautiful flying dream, and when I went to the kettle it was already hot. As if it had boiled no more than 10 minutes before. But the cups were clean and the tea was away in the cabinet, so it wasn’t as if I’d already made it. Maybe I put the kettle on the stove while I slept? And then turned it off again…? No. maybe the water stayed hot from before? When was the last time I made tea? No recollection. Disturbing. All of it. But not actually worrisome, somehow. Not quite worth the bother. Especially when I have that fantastic dream to think about.

Maybe time is wonky. Or my dream world stretches time like a tardis stretches space: larger on the inside than the outside. Otherwise it feels like the flat is living it’s life without me while I sleep. Wow, that’s a weird idea. Am I losing my mind? Maybe I’ve just given up on anything rational?

Lack of contact with the real world might actually be making me unable to understand reality…

**

(Day 23 cont'd)

I’m pretty content with the reality in my dreams, though. They are ordered and happy and everything real life can’t be. Just now I was dreaming about SH making us tea as we sat near the windows watching the rain crawl down them. We were quiet and content with the dreary day until the sun broke through the rain and a great big rainbow arced over Baker Street. SH stood up with more purpose than I’d seen in a while and said, “come John.”

“Where?” I put my cup down and started to put on my shoes.

“Trust me.” He was already in his coat and tapping his foot as I got ready.

“That was an unnecessary command and you know it.” He shot me a sly half smirk and tore down the steps the moment I stood and grabbed   
my jacket. I raced after him and we started to jog down the street, his eyes turned up to the sky, mine scanning for a taxi. I spotted one and was about to turn back to him when he caught me under the arms and we launched almost directly up, his wings heaving heavily but quickly, aiming halfway between the storm clouds and the sun.

“I’m thinking of writing an article about the refractory properties of water droplets in the troposphere. I thought you might enjoy researching with me.” He spoke softly, his lips to my ear, his low voice cutting through the whine of the wind.

“You can’t be serious, Sherlock.”

“Why not?”

I would have had to yell to answer, and decided it wasn’t worth it. Why not, indeed? I’d never seen a rainbow up close before. If he was willing to do the work to carry me, I wasn’t going to complain.

I figured it would be virtually impossible to reach it, like mountains that look about three football pitches from you and end up being miles and miles away. Instead, it took us only a couple minutes to reach the outer edge. Also, it wasn’t as insubstantial as I had expected. And it was nothing like tinted fog. It was a thick band of translucent colors bleeding into each other and when we flew through each of them the entire world was tinted accordingly. Like stepping inside a stained glass room of all one color, but without the glass part.

It was spectacular. The violet fancied up the grey day into something festive, the indigo/blue made everything gorgeous and marine-like though somewhat menacing, the green made me feel as though we were in a rainforest, the yellow banished all thoughts that weren’t summery and bright, the orange bordered on alarming, and the red turned the world bloody. No, not bloody, that makes it sound foul. It was more like greek wine, or garnets. There, the sky was raining down pomegranate seeds.

I don’t know how he could tell the red was my favorite, or maybe it was his as well and I didn’t factor into the decision, but he flew the length of the arc through the red part of it, dipping through the spectrum and back up once at the top, then continuing on. It was utterly fantastic. In fact, I’m sure I uttered that word at least twice, along with many other ejaculations of delight. (verbal ones, thank you… )

Soon, SH was tired and the rainbow was fading. But that few minutes was just phenomenal. He landed us at the end of the street and we walked home. Him with a serious, purposeful stride but his face spiked round the edges with a quiet joy he couldn’t quite conceal, me practically skipping and whooping with the exhilaration. I was still high from it when I woke up…

…and found the— wait. Sherlock made tea. And the kettle was hot when I woke. Maybe these worlds of sleep and awake aren’t separate anymore? Or maybe everything is a dream I keep not waking from?

Bloody hell.

**

Day 24

What was it he was always saying, ‘you see but you don’t observe’? I’ve started observing and started scaring myself. Today I flopped down on the couch for a nap and the union jack cushion, when I buried my face in it, smelled of Sherlock’s head. Which was quite affecting (though I don’t have to tell you how). Then when I went to run a bath (preferring bathing to showering in this chill weather) I saw that the shower tiles were already wet. None of this was surprising to me until it got to be about dinner time and I realized I was preparing for Sherlock to come home and tell me what he was working on.

It was then I understood consciously that my brain had already made the connection of these details into the subconscious thought: ‘Sherlock must have stayed up late working out a problem on the couch and then showered this morning before leaving the house’. And now I was unthinkingly awaiting the outcome of said thought process: the eventual return of Sherlock to the flat.

Which is impossible! Come on, brain! Stop fucking with me!!

I threw myself down on the couch once again in despair that I’ve still not processed his death; have been unable to integrate it into my understanding of the world. Mostly because I’ve created this other world where he is very much alive. But no matter how great the dreams are, I can’t live in them forever. He is gone, and I have to figure out how to live without him.

Maybe a flatmate would help. Maybe I should move. Maybe I could start dating again.

Maybe he should just fucking come home.

**

(Day 24 cont'd)

Woke up in the fetal position on the couch, my face pressed to the flag cushion which was still damp from before I fell asleep. When I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, the knitting pattern etched on my face and my eyes red and puffy, I chuckled at how pathetic I am. Laughing to keep from crying, I guess. Not that I have tears left. I’m tired of not being able to take a deep breath without arrows shooting straight through my chest. And the dreams aren’t helping anymore, they are making me doubt myself, my sanity, everything. The problem is, when I don’t have them, I feel bereft to the point of paralysis all over again. Catch 221b.

I have to figure out how to get over this, or I have to just fucking end it. I’m getting so bloody sick of myself.

**

Day 25

“my love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath — a source of little visible delight, but necessary… I am Heathcliff — he’s always, always in my mind — not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself — but as my own being — so, don’t talk of our separation again — it is impracticable.” —Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Just came across this quote and started weeping. Life doesn’t work when part of your self is missing. Gone.

Sherlock and I were close enough to have sunk our anchors into each other’s bedrock. When he was ripped from the world, I was left shattered.

When we met we were both broken, incomplete. Then we proceeded to knit into one another and we became stronger for it, the way a fractured bone heals. He came to use me as an appendage, and I relied on him like a vital organ.

And without him it’s getting harder and harder to keep breathing.

Moving. Feeling. Living.

And I’m questioning whether I still want to.


	3. Day 26 - 36 No More Dreaming

Day 26

Oh God.

Had it again. The same nightmare from the first night of REM sleep after he fell. Awful. Jesus…

My phone rang while I was walking down the sidewalk and when I answered I was standing right at the spot in front of St. Bart’s where he landed (the paving stones were still tinted red). I heard Moriarty’s voice do that crazy jumping through his range thing as he said, “I owed him a fall, John. Sorry…” and my heart almost broke down my ribs like a door. I couldn’t breathe or see or listen. A crushing blow to the chest, my peripheral closing in black, a piercing white noise submerging everything else. Why did I pick up? Why wasn’t he dead?

With his voice an image came to mind of JM on the phone, in a suit, his mouth open wide and smiling, but impossibly wide, and both his jaws had long rows of sharp narrow teeth, dripping blood down his chin. I stifled a horrified yell and threw my phone as far away from me as possible to stop my skin crawling. I dug the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and mouthed ‘no no no’ over and over until my breathing could start again.

When my vision came back I was sitting on a bench with my head in my hands and Molly was tapping me on the shoulder, asking me to come to the mortuary. She needed help with the post mortem. (God, I’m glad this didn’t happen in real life. I would have lost any shred of sanity that remained. I hope she didn’t have to do it alone…)

He was already laid out on the table under a sheet. My mind flashed to Buckingham Palace and a dry, constricted sob/laugh choked through my clenched teeth. Molly looked miserable and desperately worried, but there was nothing for it. It had to happen this way and neither of us could stop it. She had deep pain in her eyes and a scalpel in her hand. She nodded at me and I pulled the sheet down to his waist. His skin was evenly pale all over, as if he had never once gotten a tan. She started her recorder and stated his name, age, and time of death. She described his head injury, which I couldn’t bring myself to look at directly. She mentioned abrasions on his arms, legs and face. “Cause of death…” I looked up at her when she paused.

“Surely we know that? Blunt force trauma to the frontal, temporal and parietal bones due to a fall from extreme height, resulting in a subdural haemorrhage.”

“Yes, of course. Sorry…” she brushed the edge of her eyebrow with her fingertips and looked around as if she’d misplaced something.

“It’s all right, this is hard for…for all of us, clearly.” I couldn’t get her to meet my gaze.

“I don’t know if I can…” she was staring forlornly at his collarbone, the hand holding the scalpel shaking badly.

“It can’t be necessary to be so thorough. It’s obvious the cause of death had nothing to do with his internal organs…”

“They want us to be sure, for the inquest. We have to cut him open.” Her voice was starting to shake as well.

“Molly,” she looked at me as if scared for her life, “do you want me to do it?”

“Oh, John. Of course I don’t. But I can’t—” her lips had a tremor but her eyes were full of sympathy.

“Look, just give me the scalpel. It’s okay. All right?” I put my hand on her shoulder and gently prized the blade from her grasp. I was already measuring out the Y shape on his chest when she clicked the recorder off and said something so quiet I wasn’t sure I’d heard it. And then I was, because my hand started to quiver.

She said, “I don’t know if it’s right or wrong that it’s you and me doing this—both of us loving him so much.” I looked up at her and her lips were pressed painfully together, her eyes rimmed with tears. I couldn’t breathe, let alone think of a response. “I was never jealous of you, John. I would have been if there was another woman, that would have hurt more than anything he could have said to me. The one whose phone he had at Chris –ah– at Christmas? She hurt. A lot. But never you. I was glad of you. You made him better – a better person. And he loved you for it.” She reached out and gently touched my arm. It was like an electric shock. I flinched. That made her grab tight hold, which grounded me. The scalpel clattered to the floor, however. She found a clean one and handed it to me. I managed to whisper “thanks” though I don’t know if she heard it. Or if she did, whether she knew what it was for.

I balled up my left hand tight and then flexed my fingers wide, testing for steadiness. I thought I was all right to cut. I placed my right hand on his chest, both to steady the flesh and myself. It was the first time I’d touched his skin, other than his hand. Even through surgical gloves it was…startling. I caught my breath and held it. I grasped the scalpel tighter and started to make a very strong decisive cut. The moment I broke the skin, blood came pouring out and Sherlock made a noise, a pushing out of breath, a ‘ffhuh’ sound.

Molly screamed and I swore, we both backed away as he sat up on the table and opened his eyes. Which were yellow. Not jaundiced in the whites, but in the irises—a bright, tawny gold. Gorgeous and terrifying. The red of his blood and the yellow of his eyes made his skin look almost white as the sheet, which he pulled around himself as he stood. Then he reached out to us as if ravenous…

I flinched and was pulled awake at this point, listening to the stillness in the room as if it was brand new. I wondered if I’d yelled out loud.  
The last time I had this dream, Sherlock had a mouth like Moriarty’s and tried to convince us to let him eat us: “Just do as I say.” (shudder.) When we ran, he chased after us all through London, we took a more circuitous route than when trailing that murderous cabbie, but still he was always right behind. Molly was sobbing as she ran and I felt like my leg was wounded again, I was so slow. My breath hurt and my voice was gone, so I’m pretty sure I had been either yelling or crying in my sleep because when I’d finally gone past all endurance and was about to let the demonic SH catch me—in fact, at the very moment he grabbed tight hold of my arm and started tearing at my sleeve with those teeth—Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door, calling to me about whether everything was all right. I woke that time in such a panic my heart didn’t stop banging for ten minutes.

This time, it wasn’t as bad. I woke before things got really panicky and was able to calm down after a minute and even drift back to sleep for a bit. It was a fitful sleep, I woke up multiple times over the next hour for some reason, but I didn’t fall back into the nightmare.  
Not that it didn’t leave a lasting impression, the images and the emotions still cling heavily to my waking consciousness. I’m already trying to not see the mouth and eyes in front of me at all times. Or hear Molly’s plaintive voice in my ears. I don’t know which is more destructive to my state of mind.

Today is gonna be a rough one.

**

(Day 26 cont'd)

I know it wasn’t actually Molly saying those words, but I can’t let them go.

Does ‘a better person’ do things like jump off a building?

If so, my constant betterment crusade failed him at the most crucial moment. Or maybe it succeeded. I just ended up the loser.  
‘a better person.’ I was one of those once. He could see it.

And then I couldn’t feel his pulse. Now I’m failing at being one at all.

“Sleep, rock my brain, and never come mischance between us twain.”

**

Day 27

Fuck. Again. So awful.

Red teeth and yellow irises and shocking hands on my sleeve…what I wouldn’t give for some wings. Or just darkness.

I’m not sure I can do this anymore. If I have to see all that again…

Drinking till I can’t dream tonight. Don’t fucking care if I wake up or not.

**

Day 28

Well, managed to wake up, it seems. In his bed, of course. Somehow I had this feeling like I’d been floating in the sea (which inspired me to drain the large jug of water on the nightstand). Not much like flying, but I have no actual memory of dreaming. Success.

And that floaty feeling was really quite peaceful. Calming. As if I had been meditating instead of slumbering. I came up cleansed, like the sky scrubbed blue after a storm, or like someone wiping the slate of my mind clean with a damp rag. If this is what about six whiskeys before bed does, I’m sold.

A nice round headache greeted me, though. So did a fry-up on the stove. A bit burnt, but very welcomed. Tea still hot. Mrs. Hudson has never gone this far in her housekeeping duties before. At least not without checking in first…

…Unless she has done. Maybe that’s why I’ve been so confused by things in the flat…hm. Must ask her.

(Oof, maybe I’ll try only three before bed tonight.)

**

Day 29

I’m going to keep on this not dreaming thing for a while. I think it’s safer. I’ll actually try to sleep a lot less too. Just stay up late drinking until I pass out and then not laze around in bed too long when I wake up. From now on the computer stays on the desk. Coffee will happen more than tea. I might even venture outside soon.

Come on, John. Be a human being for a bit, it’ll be good for you. You aren’t an invalid for god’s sake, no need to act like one.

Asked Mrs. Hudson today about the expansion of her housekeeping duties, and either she’s embarrassed about helping me out or she really hasn’t been in the flat. I have a hard time believing she would lie to me, even if it were for either of our benefits, which this really isn’t. She seemed upset when I mentioned the fry-up. I told her not to worry and I’d let her know if I needed anything. otherwise, she’s not to bother.  
She is right though, I shouldn’t be cooking if I’m drunk enough to not remember doing it. But smart of me to have water and food ready. 

Wish I was that smart every drunken night…

**

Day 30

I left the house today, for the first time in almost two weeks (and that time it was just to do the shopping). I decided to just go out and be a part of the world for the afternoon. It was surreal. Being bombarded with so many people’s conversations and agendas and trajectories, it was sensory overload. Even just going into the cafe nearby I couldn’t focus because there were people to observe and deduce things about. I haven’t had practice in that for a while and it was consuming. 

The woman at the table in the corner was obviously waiting for someone who must have been late, judging by the number of times she checked her phone, either for the time or to see if there was a text, or both. She looked tired and uncomfortable, was wearing too light and porous a jacket for the weather. I wondered if it was the only nice one she had. Was she hoping to impress the person? Is this a job interview, a date, a reunion with a long-lost friend, or maybe an ex? Her nerves were starting to make me anxious. I began looking over my shoulder every time someone entered, hoping it was her person. 

SH would tell me I’m too empathetic for this sort of thing. ‘This’ being the cold reasoning one needs for proper deduction. Also, I have an ‘overly dramatic sense of reality’. Oh yeah, and I ‘let [my] imagination run rampant’.

Ah well. I never pretended to be good at his job (who could, really), so why start now?

I settled back with my tea and scone, trying to let the teeming of human life flow around me without my catching hold of any of it. Sort of like when you visit a country that has a language you don’t know and you can let all the public interactions you encounter just wash over you because they lack meaning. It was mostly working, focusing on the clinks of china, the footsteps and murmurs, fuzzing out the words. That was, until I heard the phrase “I owe you” from the man who finally joined the thin-jacket-woman at her table. He wanted to buy her something sweet and was saying, “I owe you something for making you wait this long.” Then, with my senses tuned back to English, I heard it again, behind me. Someone on their phone saying “you’re a life-saver. I owe you big time for this.” And, you will never believe it but it’s true, then I heard it a third time. From the woman behind the counter counting out the change to a patron, “I owe you ten more pence, just a sec…” as she reached to get a coin from the other register to finish the transaction.

Three times in 90 seconds. I looked around like I was going to see…what? I have no idea. A puppet master with the strings in his hands. Mycroft’s car. JM standing at the window saying ‘yoo-hoo!’ I don’t know what I thought was happening. But I felt very strange, like I’d gone down a rabbit hole without knowing it. Like I was secretly dreaming and would either wake up or would now meet the monster in the nightmare. I held my breath for the next 90 seconds, then finally let it out slowly, lips tight, like blowing out cigarette smoke. Then I walked home. Cautiously.

**

(Day 30 cont'd)

When I got inside, everything felt different. A window was open, the kettle was warm, and the flag cushion was back on the couch (I’ve taken to sleeping with it—don’t judge), along with my laptop. I know reality has been hard for me recently, but I will swear that the flat was very different when I left it earlier. And Mrs. Hudson has been out all day. Besides I asked her not to come in unless I’ve invited her.

I had my phone out to text Lestrade when I thought I heard something in SH’s bedroom. I grabbed my gun out of the desk (yes, I knew it wasn’t loaded, doesn’t matter though if they don’t) and edged quietly up to the half-open door. I heard some sound of movement, so I barged in, gun at the ready, yelling at the intruder. The room was empty but the far window was wide open, the curtain blowing in the breeze. The one with the fire escape attached to it. Of course. I looked out and down, but could see no one. It’s possible I only heard the curtain flapping and the intruder was already long gone. I sat down on the bed, head in hands, and a cold knot of fear chilled the base of my spine. 

What were they looking for? It could only be Moriarty’s men trying to get information, evidence, or maybe try to kill me. Should I worry about booby traps? Should I burglar-proof the house?

Should I just let them come and not keep them from their task? It would be a painful way to go, but at least I’d feel alive again before I died.  
I checked my computer but it was on the login screen. It’s password protected and no one else knows it. Alive or dead. I’ve changed it since The Fall. SH knew the old one, but that’s because no password was safe from him. I burned through a lot of them early on, until I just gave up having privacy in my computer life. Which is a unique indignity suffered by few adults in this day and age. There are things I don’t miss about him at all.

Anyway, I logged in and was about to send Lestrade an email—less urgent than a text but still putting him on alert—when I saw a new icon on my desktop. It was a sticky note that when I opened it said: I. O. U. 2.

My heart slammed into my throat and choked me. Please tell me this whole thing has just been an elaborate ruse to make me go mad. Because it’s working, and any other explanation scares the bejesus out of me.

**

(Day 30 cont'd)

Okay, assuming I’ve not gone completely off the deep end, and that reality is still something to be relied upon to exist, and logical outcomes are still the most statistically significant option, (all of which I have questioned in the past couple months, but no matter) how the hell could this have happened?

I can’t rule out the possibility of the people in the cafe being paid actors, but what about here? What about my computer?

…bloody hell. Moriarty’s code. His key to everything. He must have given it to his successor. Oh, I am right fucked, I am.

**

Day 31

Good God. I think I preferred the madness of hauntings and altered reality to the madness of waiting for your killer to come for you. At least I don’t have to be worried about dreams when sleeping is next to impossible. I go back and forth as to whether I think it would be better to be drunk when the assassin comes, or not. Part of me likes the idea of everything being fuzzy, as if it were a dream, and the other part wants to be fully and clearly conscious for such a real experience. It’s almost a moot point, tho. I can’t keep myself from going insane any other way but by drinking. Or, let me rephrase that to be more accurate: the kind of crazy that drinking induces is much more comfortable and familiar than the kind of crazy that over-thinking about your imminent death creates. The lesser of two evils is hell on your liver, but keeps the gun barrel out of your mouth.

Not that there is much choice in the matter. The gun will end up there anyway, it’s just the difference between choosing when by pulling the trigger yourself, and giving that kind of control to a stranger.

My god, this is worse than sitting in a foxhole. I’m getting really jumpy. Feeling the ever more pressing need to retrieve my ammunition from Mrs. Hudson, trying to figure out how to do that without arousing suspicion.

Maybe it’s time for a drink. Who should I toast this time? The detective, the professor, or the professional? I’ll do one for each, I guess. Third time’s the charm…

**

Month 2  
Day 32

Got my bullets back from Mrs. Hudson by telling her Greg invited me to the firing range. She thought that might do me wonders, sweet thing. I must feel like a ghost to her, haunting the upper floors of her house. I’m glad she is willing to put up with me still. It was clear SH was her favorite, but she did warm up to me and was always very kind. I should leave her a note or something, in case…

God, I wish I knew what ‘case’ I’m trying to be prepared for here. Clearly not a Case case. Not a solvable case. This is an ‘in case’. Which is a lot of what my armed forces training was for, really. But maybe I could pretend I was him and this was a real case and deduce something from the situation…

They can get into the house, and did so when I was gone, so they are trained in burglary and surveillance. They either left before I arrived or right as I was climbing the stairs. If the latter, it isn’t a team, because someone would have been the lookout. If the former, they were very sloppy about everything, leaving things open and in disarray, even leaving a note… God, that note. Maybe they wanted to scare me more than they wanted to hurt me. Because they could have just lain in wait for me and shot me dead right then.

So what else do they have in store for me? this is what makes me most upset, what my imagination does to answer that question. (and this is how i know i’m not him, because i let it.)

Maybe they were unarmed this time. Just a little searching and messing with my head. It’s what the next time looks like that has me rattled.

 

**

Day 33

Survived the night. Wondering how many times I’ll wake up thinking that before I don’t.

Never thought until now about the possibility that the wings on SH might be indicators of his angel status. Is that possible? Could he really be an angel? Isn’t he too cool for that? (or too something, at least?)

But if he is one, can he be my guardian angel? Please? I think I need one very badly right now.

Strangely, the oddness of things going on in the house has lapsed. And even though it was slightly creepy when it was happening, the lack of it makes me feel a lot less okay, somehow. Because, aside from the actual intrusion a couple days ago, the feeling of the house being lived in had some sort of comforting effect. Like I wasn’t totally alone in the world. Or that the world and I were in agreement that I shouldn’t be the only one here. (No, I don’t make any sense. Yes, I’m aware of how mad I seem. No, I don’t care.)

Now the house feels dead, and I feel like I’m just waiting to die. And if it starts to feel alive again, that’s when I know it will be my time to go.

Then maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get my own set of wings.

**

Day 34

The innate desire for survival has kicked in. I’ve gone into soldier mode. Gun on me at all times, always on alert, and only sleeping lightly for short periods of time. I’ve even started exercising—push ups, pull ups (SH had mounted a bar in his closet, i learned) and lots of crunches.  
I assume it’s just as dangerous (or just as safe—depending on which half of the glass) outside as inside the flat, and waiting around for them to come back is starting to drive me up the walls, so I’ve started jogging too. Over in Regent’s park. It’s good. It’s calming. It’s helping, since I’m still not dreaming, to clear my head.

Daytime defragging is well, you know, daydreaming. Letting things float to the surface and turning them around in your mind, subjecting them to scrutiny from many angles and setting them aside again. Sometimes it’s surprising what comes to mind, others it’s not. I’ve gotten good at pushing away The Fall. It comes up a lot less frequently than it used to. Other things show up now—happier things—memories of successful cases and contented days. A good long jog can be almost as pleasant as a ride from Sherlock’s wings. Almost.

The main difference is the need for constant vigilance. Even while jogging and daydreaming, I still have my soldier’s eyes trained on my surroundings, assessing the possibility of danger. No relying on him now to see things and know what they mean. I didn’t realize how much I’d relied on him before, how much I’d let my guard down. Not half so much in real life as in dreamworld though. When asleep with a winged Sherlock, I didn’t have to worry about anything. I was safer than I’ve felt in years.

Ah well, so much for that.

**

Day 35

Had sort of a half-dream last night. Or a double one. Or both. There was something I kept trying to dream but I kept waking up from it and feeling like it was still happening, but then not. It was variations on the theme of me taking care of Sherlock when he was sick, and then vice versa. Lots of bringing tea or broth into the bedroom and good bedside manner—arranging pillows and palms on foreheads and asking, ‘are you all right’, sometimes with a hot water bottle—always going back and forth between being the one in bed and the one perching on the edge of it. Each iteration seemed to only last a minute before waking, remembering (or forgetting) it wasn’t true, then falling back asleep and starting over in a new configuration. Woke up at least once groggy and sweaty and totally convinced I wasn’t alone in the room. But only long enough to grab hold of reality and examine my paranoia. I did get up for a drink of water at that point, just to try to break the cycle in my brain. And yes, I brought my gun with me to the sink. It lives under my pillow at night. When I got back to the bed the covers looked a right mess. As if I’d been tugging them down from either side. Maybe there’s lots of tossing and turning when playing both sides of the sickbed. Felt very calming and peaceful though, instead of tiring, like every other bit of ‘rest’ I’ve gotten recently.

But this is why dreaming is a bad idea. Keeps me from being sure of what’s happening in the real world. It will be how I die—thinking something is a dream when it’s not. Or vice versa. Well, maybe the latter can’t kill me. At least not without my help. I don’t think…

**

Day 36

More half-dreams of sickbed role reversals. Concern and care and contact. Two days in a row.

I’m getting soft. Or sick. I was able to not dream at all for a while, but now my body is catching up to my short sleep cycles and dropping me right into vivid REM sleep the moment I shut my eyes. It wouldn’t worry me if I could wake back up as quickly. But because I can’t, today things started to get worrisome.

Being under the influence of the combination of that not-quite-awake stage, the dreamshadow of someone in danger, and the smell of his wings induced my early-morning-half-in-dream self to send Sherlock a text.

It said: Are you all right? -J

I fell back asleep right after and would have thought it was just part of the cycle of half-dreams if I hadn’t checked my sent messages. In fact, I did think it was a dream all day until this evening. 

And the reason I checked was the fact that at 6:09pm an unknown number texted me the word: Yes.

No sign off, nothing else.

Something’s totally broken. Either my phone, or my mind, or the fabric of the universe, or causality…or maybe just some wanker’s sense of humor, who knows? Any number of things, I suppose. One of them being my heart. Again.

Could it have been that simple? Just text him and he’s not dead? Have I finally fallen all the way through the dreamworld rabbit hole and come out the other side where the alternate reality I built and then discarded is actually real life? Why do I feel like clicking my heels together or something as trite?

There’s no place like home, Sherlock. Isn’t it time you returned? I’ll wake up from my dream, forsake Oz forever, if you just come back to Baker Street.


	4. Day 37 - 38 flesh and blood

Day 37

Must have fallen asleep. Woke up feeling achy and thinking about that text. The number wasn’t one in my phone, but it wasn’t blocked. I tried calling it just now. It rang out and went to an automated voice mailbox. I almost left a message, but I didn’t want to give anyone else the satisfaction of hearing me address him.

There is no way it’s really him. Could it be one of Moriarty’s men got a hold of SH’s old phone number and has just been waiting for me to weaken to the point of contacting it? I wonder if they are surprised how long it took.

Because, believe me, I’ve thought about it. So many times. I have a large assortment of texts in my drafts folder that I’ve refrained from sending.

I don’t know what happened last night/this morning (yesterday? what time is it?) that brought me to the point of actually doing so. Maybe I really am getting sick. Maybe it was just the repetition of such an illusory situation—the comfortable feeling of taking care of each other in bed—that wore down my resistance and had me reaching out to his phantom limb. His phone.

But if it’s them, why wouldn’t the reply be from his own number? And why no signature? One or the other maybe, but not both. I know he used all sorts of phones, especially mine when it was more handy than his (or even when it wasn’t) but no matter which phone he used he virtually always signed off with -SH.

The one time he didn’t was when … well, when we had been having a row, and in anger I asked him something very personal, which I shouldn’t have done over text but did, and he responded with just one word: You.

And then the argument was over. I apologized and never brought it up again.

Somehow that was the first time I had ever felt as though he was completely focused on me. Not my actions or reactions, not my thoughts, not what he wanted from me. Just me, as a person. Perversely, this could only have happened when we weren’t in each other’s presence. And it mostly felt so personal because he didn’t feel the need to name himself, or me, in his response.

**

(Day 37 cont'd)

No one would know all this, however. So I’m reading too much into it. No, scratch that, what I’m reading into it is the fucking impossibility that I might have corresponded with Sherlock.. Dammit! I really _am_ going insane!

There is no way that’s what just happened, John. There has to be an explanation.

…but it’s there. I’m not dreaming, and the text is there. It’s a real number, because it answered when I called, so I didn’t just make this up myself…right?

No. Someone else is messing with me. In the worst possible way. I am not making things up, (at least not this thing) but someone is trying to make me think I am. They want me think things I shouldn’t be. Not if I want to hold together.

Bastards.

…either that or I just got a text from my bleeding best friend who has been dead for months!! How could that be possible??

What the bloody buggering FUCK is happening to me?!

…All right. All right…

I’m going to calm down and figure out how to go back to sleep, as it’s now 3am and none of this is helping.

…fuck.

**

Day 38

[how do I even begin to type this all out? it's going to take me a while...]

It took me forever to fall asleep again. Couldn’t stop running possibilities and eventualities over in my mind, convinced I was inches away from either madness or death, not allowing myself to fall victim to the obvious text ruse, knowing that I would give up my sanity in a heartbeat for it to be true.

I woke up a couple hours later in what felt like a fever, my senses tingling, everything tensed, dead sure I had a gun pointed at my head. Possibly my own. I moved my hand slowly under my pillow and didn’t find it, so that became a reality to deal with. Soon, however, it was clear to me that the assassin was actually on the bed, not far from me, but not within reach. The bed was trembling, just slightly, as if someone was holding a difficult position for longer than their muscles were used to.

Good. Let them sweat.

If I wasn’t dead already, I had to assume this person wanted some sort of confrontation. Or maybe just didn’t like shooting people in the back. I appreciated having a fighting chance, though I was pretty sure they must have known I was awake and alert.

I wondered for a moment if this was simply a minion, keeping me captive until the person in charge made their entrance. And then I remembered that real people don’t tend to have nemeses and criminal masterminds don’t grow on trees. And I was wasting time, what little patience this killer seemed to have wasn’t going to last long.

I’d already kicked the covers off in my sleep and my body was ready to spring—good old fight or flight response—so I decided to go for broke and risk incomplete incapacitation in the hopes of at least disarming the intruder. So, since I was curled up on my side, I swung my legs out and back in a sweeping motion across the bed behind me. I made solid contact and was gratified to know that I’d been right, they had been tensed in a half kneeling, half crouching position. Once they were bowled over I reared my leg up and slammed it down onto their chest, knocking the wind out of them. They rolled off the bed onto the floor as I scrambled up and leaped on top of their kneeling form, executing a choke hold round their neck from behind.

“Where’s my gun.”

“John—” They weezed.

“Don’t speak, just point. Where’s my gun?” An arm flailed toward the dresser across the room. I could see the barrel gleam in the low light from the bathroom. So it had never been in play, then. Odd.

“John, please.” A whisper. A hand came up and tapped my shoulder, as if tapping out from a wrestling match. I was gauging how to get the gun without laying myself open to attack, short of dragging him across the room with me. The hand moved to pull my forearm off his adam’s apple enough to find his voice. All my adrenaline was in effect and though he was taller, I definitely had the advantage— he wasn’t breathing. 

I loosened my grip slightly if only to give me time to decide the next move.

A cough, and then: “John, for God’s sake, get off me.”

His voice.

My God.

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

His **voice.**

_This must be a trick,_ I thought, as my arms fell to my sides and my veins flooded with ice water.

“Are you a—”

And then he turned and sat on the floor facing me, elbow on knee, hand to his throat, a rueful, wincing grin playing across his face.

That face.

Even in the semi-dark—in fact, _because_ of the semi-dark—I knew that the angles and planes of that face belonged to no one else. My skin was on fire all over. Without taking my eyes away from him, I groped for the bedside lamp and switched it on. The sight ripped the air out of me.

There he was. Exactly the same. Almost.

Thinner, maybe. Yes, definitely. His cheeks and eye sockets were hollowed out slightly and his shirt buttons strained less. And his hair was cut short. My muscles started to jump.

“Yes, despite your best efforts, I’m all right. Help me up.” He reached his hand out to me and I automatically stepped over, hauled him to his feet, and wrapped him in a crushing hug. He made a ‘ffhuh’ sound as the wind was pressed out of him, which ended in a low chuckle and a surprisingly tight and warm return hug around my shoulders. It felt overwhelmingly good.

Too good. I was losing it.

Everything, all at once, jumbled together and making my head (and heart) spin: incomprehension of what I was witnessing, astonishment and disbelief that it was possible, fear he wasn’t real, boiling rage, searing hurt, and the excruciating happiness of believing that I was awake and he was here that welled up and threatened to undo me. I tried to push it back down, sure of it being premature.

And then there was the relief. The overpowering relief that a miracle _had_ occurred and the nightmare of the last few months was finally over. I couldn’t quite let myself believe it. And yet my whole body was filled with the warmth of being in contact with his. This was real life. I had a hard time letting go.

I finally stepped back from him and he sat down on the bed, his bright blue eyes looking expectantly at me, the shadow of a hopeful smile playing on his lips. I took my first deep breath since waking and punched him, hard, in the nose. I felt the bone give way underneath my knuckles and the satisfaction it gave me bordered on obscene. This positively was Sherlock, in the flesh. And blood, clearly. Alive and well and speaking to me.

Or maybe not that last one anymore.

**

(Day 38 cont'd) 

He swore vehemently when I hit him but said nothing else. He lay back on the bed, smearing blood across his cheeks, as I went calmly to the kitchen to put ice in a dampened towel for him, stopping in the bathroom for some ibuprofen as well.

At the sink with the water running I noticed my hand shaking violently. I clutched it tightly, futilely trying to stop it. Then I had that feeling, the one in the back of the throat that says tears are coming, and that scared me for a second. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my jagged breathing.

_What the fucking… is this really happening?_  
Yes, yes it is. And it’s a good thing.  
This is not the end of the world, or the end of your sanity.  
Keep it together, John. ‘Atta boy.  
You are awake and he is here.  
And you can breathe.  
It’s not too much for you. You can do this.  
Just don’t cry. At least not right now.  
Come on: In, out. In, out. In…out… 

When my heart rate was headed back to normal, I opened my eyes. I’d closed them so tightly my vision swam with light and color for a moment before resolving itself. I touched my face and looked at my hands, grounding myself in waking life. I flicked the light switch on and off again, just to confirm this was not a dream. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, filled a tumbler under the still running stream, then headed back into the room.

He was still there, lying on the bed, no wings to be seen.

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

When I handed the towel over he wouldn’t look at me. The pain killers and water he tossed back with a nod of thanks. I sat on the edge of the bed near him, watching him closely. From what I could tell the break wasn’t that bad. But there he was sitting next to me. My mind kept repelling the idea and then trying to soak it up as if parched.

“What the fuck, Sherlock??”

“I know, John. I’m—”

“No, this is not something you can just apologize for. This is…Jesus!” I stood up to pace away from him for a minute. “I knew it. Somehow, I knew it…”

“No you didn’t. Did you know? Maybe you did. Maybe I made sure you did.”

_Did I know it? Or had I just wished it so hard it seemed to have come true?_ “Have you been fucking with me? Because I will—”

“Not on purpose. Please, calm down.”

I unclenched my fists but stood right in front of him and said, “No, look. My grasp on reality has been very tenuous of late and…”

“I know, and I wouldn’t just mess you about for a lark. John, please. Sit down. Look, it won’t stop bleeding.” He took the towel away from his face and leaned his head slightly back. The bright red against his pale cheeks shocked me out of my anger. I put my hand on his shoulder as I sat.

“Lean forward, otherwise you’ll swallow all the blood. And here, put the ice right here, on the bridge, and press.”

“A-ah…”

“Oh, right. Don’t press. But hold it there for a bit. I’ll need to re-set it soon, when the flow stops.” He made eye contact from around the towel for the first time since I hit him. “I’m not sorry for that. So don’t expect me to be.”

“That’s all right, I know better. And as long as you set it like new, I won’t hold it against you.” He smiled, but without his eyes, a show of correct social interaction. I nodded in acceptance of this offering.

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

“I _am_ sorry for this.” I pointed to his neck, and then touched my own, illustrating that I’d left red marks on him from the tussle earlier. “I thought you were a hit man.”

He cleared his throat. I could tell it twinged. “A hit man who doesn’t carry his own gun? Shame, John. I taught you better than that.”

“Well, I had a real intruder a while back and have been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

He smirked with only a modicum of humor. “So have I.”

There was a pause. Not too long, thankfully. “It was you, you git!” I refrained from punching him again, though he flinched at my words, which choked me to see. I swallowed as he leaned back to lay down again, maintaining eye contact, his lashes hovering low over his cheeks.

“Yes, of course it was. It had been ages since I’d had the flat to myself and when you left I got a little…free with my usage of the place. I regret the note on your computer, but had no idea how deeply the graffiti piece had embedded itself into your imagination. Never discount the power of the imagination.” That last statement he spoke to himself as if chiding.

“Or coincidence.” I remarked, thinking of the events in the cafe.

“Or suggestion, John.” He rolled his eyes at me. “I would have tidied up more if you hadn’t surprised me with coming back so soon.”

“So I did hear you in this room when I walked in.” I leaned to rest on my side, propped on my elbow next to his supine form.

“Yes, I just managed to get out onto the fire escape before you could wave that empty gun at me.”

“Well it’s loaded now…wait, but you weren’t on the fire escape when I looked out. Did you climb in Mrs. Hudson’s window?”

“Not a bad guess, but no. I went up to the roof. No one ever looks up a fire escape.”

“Brilliant.” He caught my eye with a glint when he heard that. I gave him a warm smile, he returned it with a tiny one of his own.

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

My smile faded as a thought came to me. “Hang on. Have you been here other times, as well then?” He looked at me as if I couldn’t possibly expect him to answer something so obvious. “How often?” He looked even less inclined to answer this one, but for different reasons. “Come off it, I’ll punch you in the mouth next, if you keep it shut.”

“That would make me a lot less able to reply, though. Wouldn’t it?” he sneered.

“I’m waiting.”

“Often. Frequently.” I glared at him. “I don’t know, John. Every other three days and twice on Tuesdays. Do you want to look at my diary?” Getting annoyed was not going to get him out of answering, and he knew it.

“Sherlock…?” The teacherly tone, back already.

He winced. “Not every night, but maybe 3 or 4 times a week? Whenever I could be reliably sure you’d be asleep. Which was touch and go in the beginning.”

_Good lord, that’s a lot. no wonder I felt haunted._  
And no wonder I wanted to sleep so much.  
Some part of me must have known, especially with the tea kettle.  
If only I had understood what I was observing… 

“Hang on, did you recently spend the night on the couch and then shower in the morning?”

“Yes, a couple times. When I had a problem to work on. But the couch isn’t very comfortable for sleeping.”

“Then where did you sleep?” He glanced quickly at me then looked away again.

“After you moved in here I started out in your room. But it resulted in me getting trapped up there for hours sometimes.” I smirked at his annoyance. “Look, there’s no loo up there. Playing the role of invisible flatmate is bloody difficult!”

“Oh, poor thing. I almost feel sorry for your troubles. You, stuck up there while I slowly lost my mind, my hope and my grasp on reality down here.” In that one sentence I went from taking the piss to being seriously pissed off.

He registered the shift and turned onto his side to look at me directly. “I noticed. Don’t think I didn’t. That’s why I moved down here after a time.”

“Down where?” My cheeks started to flush.

“In here. I’d climb up the fire escape and wait out the window for you to go to bed. Or I’d sneak in while you were watching telly and curl up on the floor of the closet till you fell asleep. Then I’d take the farthest corner of the bed from you and listen to your breathing. I’d match my subconscious attention to its rhythm so that any time it shifted, I’d wake. Many’s the time you have rolled over or woken up and fallen back asleep, or even gotten up to piss or drink water while I was crouched next to the far side of the bed, having rolled off just as you woke, waiting for you to return to sleep before easing myself back into place.”

Hearing all this, I couldn’t help but blush furiously.

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

I shifted my position, rolling onto my back, to take in this information. (There was no way to hide the blush.) I’d been sharing a bed with Sherlock for weeks without consciously knowing it. He had been privy to my night times without my consent. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. Part of me wonders if it helped, not being really alone, the other part of me is almost positive it was a factor in my difficulties with reality. Were my dreams affected by sleeping next to him? My subconscious must have picked up on his presence and adapted somehow. But was it positively or negatively? Were the demonic nightmares his fault? or the flying dreams? Did I want to know?

I haven’t regularly shared a bed with anyone in years. I mean, yes. I’ve had four girlfriends since moving back to London, but none of those relationships lasted long enough to get to the ‘sleeping over 3-4 times a week’ phase. Even when I would ‘sleep’ with any of my girlfriends, it was rare that I’d spend the whole night in her bed and even more rare that she’d stay over at my place. The latter was because none of them liked to wake up to Sherlock’s eccentricities, and the former was I didn’t want to inflict my nightmares upon them.

Yes, way before The Fall I was waking up in a sweat fairly often, reliving Afghanistan, or lost patients, or even one or the other of our more brutal cases. It was something I tried not to let people know about. It’s the reason I wanted the upstairs room even when my leg was still bothering me. I knew I wouldn’t be overheard if I made noises in my sleep.

Now Sherlock had undoubtedly witnessed my unconscious weakness. Those uncontrollable horrors. And I don’t ever show signs of weakness. Nor do I lose control well. And I really don’t like being at the disadvantage of someone else seeing me in either of these predicaments.

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

I tried to contain my anxiety around the nightmares and focus on understanding everything else that had been going on.

“So what changed tonight that I caught you out?” He seemed to allow some tension to ease in him, hearing this question.

“I was just climbing onto the bed when you stirred. No time to jump off again.”

“You’d had time to take away my gun.”

“I’m guessing it was the slight noise I made setting it on the dresser that woke you.”

“Why’d you take it from me?”

“I wasn’t sure how you’d reacted to my text.”

“Meaning…?”

“I was…forgive me John, but I couldn’t be sure of your state of mind. Whether hearing from me had unhinged you or not. I had no gauge for how quickly you might resort to violence. I couldn’t risk it.”

I sat up sharply. “Sherlock, you had _**no. right.**_ ” I stopped until my voice wouldn’t shake. He propped himself on his elbow and looked at me with an intentionally blank face. It was infuriating. “Taking my gun. Or scaring the piss out of me. or texting me back, or sleeping in my bed, or breaking into the flat, or hiding from me this whole time, I—”

“My bed, actually. And my flat as well.”

“Shut. _Up_!!” His eyes grew wide at the anger in my voice. I stood up, outraged at his apparent nonchalance. “You are not God, Sherlock! You are not allowed to go about treating the world like you made it and the rest of us just live in it. Do you have any idea how all this feels to me right now??” I was quivering. Not just my hand, my whole body.

His eyes narrowed and I knew what was coming. “More than an ‘idea’. I know that you are quite shaken by the surprise of me showing up, that was clear from your face going white earlier and the stress lines remaining around your eyes. I know you are angry with me for deceiving you, my nose and your trembling are evidence of that. I know you are hurt because I stayed away when you were clearly not well, your tone of voice and how it catches in your throat makes that one abundantly clear. And you are embarrassed by my frequent presence in the flat and this bed. The first one makes you feel stupid, the second makes you feel…uncomfortable. Possibly because of your latent homophobia (it’s all right, everyone internalizes some of it), more likely, the state of your nights.”

“All right, stop. That’s enough.” I turned from him, still shaking, but keeping my voice level.

“No, I don’t think it is.” He sat up and leaned forward. His voice dropped pitch and slowed slightly. “You’re afraid I’ll think less of you because you are plagued by nightmares. Nothing could be further from the truth. The thing I disapprove of is this: your fear that they will take hold of you is unfounded, yet you continue to conflate reality and dreaming, which is not helping your state of mind. Nor is the fact that you clearly prefer the latter. It’s making things much worse than you’ll admit. Couple that with your drinking and your gun fixation and this whole situation is verging on very Not Good, John.”

I balled my shaking fists up but kept them at my sides and said levelly, “Fuck you, Sherlock. You are not my therapist.” I turned back in time to see all sternness wiped from his face, leaving something that looked like wistfulness.

“No. I’m not. I’m your friend.” His voice caught on the last word as he reached out and grabbed hold of my wrist. The contact shocked me and I jerked, but he didn’t let go. He pulled me back till I was bumping up against the edge of the bed and still he didn’t let go. I gave in and sat down, my hand resting on the bed beside me. He held on, tracing his thumb slowly in a circle round my wrist bone (the protruding pisiform bone) as my body calmed itself to stillness. My heart, however, sped up slightly.

 

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

_My friend. Sherlock. Is alive._

_And I can feel him. Right here._

Something in my chest opened up and flowed through my whole body, loosening everything. I lay back down on the bed, frowning up at the ceiling. _Damn him, I can never stay mad._

He let go my hand and said in a low voice, “I know REM sleep is important, doctor, but I usually tried to wake you as soon as the stress signs were clear.”

I threw my arm over my eyes at this. _God dammit._ He was so intimately acquainted with the nightmares, he could tell when they came. That was new. No one had ever known them this well. Known me this well.

I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or appalled by the idea. My mind backed off it and began wondering if he could tell about the flying dreams as well, and if so, how…?

“Sherlock?” I pulled my arm away to address him.

“Yes, John.” I could tell he had the towel against his nose again.

“Have you been reading my blog?” I was back to staring at the ceiling, listening and feeling intently for his response. He started busying   
himself refolding the wet, bloody towel.

“I have tried to keep abreast of the updates, giving them a cursory glance when it seemed warranted.”

_Bloody hell. He follows it and reads every post the moment it’s up._

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

Everything in me tensed and I sat up quickly, all business. “Come here, I need to reset it.”

“What, now?” annoyance dripped off him.

“Yes, now. Come here.” He turned to face me and held still, his eyes shut a little more tightly than necessary. He was going to have two black eyes in the morning. And this wasn’t going to feel very nice. I might have been a little sorry for this part, though I didn’t tell him as much.

_**Crack!** _

“OW!! For fuck’s sake, that _hurt_!!”

“Of course it did. I never said it wouldn’t.”

“True, but mother of God, that was awful!”

“Couldn’t have been worse than the original break…”

“It was, I swear it.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby about it. Here, mop up that blood before we completely ruin the duvet.”

“Can’t. I’m getting dizzy.” He leaned back again, trying not to let drips get everywhere.

“No, no. Forward. Lean forward. Here. Hand me the towel, I’ll do it. God, your shirt’s a mess.” He didn’t open his eyes to look at it so I knew he wasn’t faking. I handed him a ball of tissues to hold under his nose while I used a clean portion of the towel to wipe blood off the bed and his shirt. He had smudges all over his face and when I moved to wipe one off his eyebrow, he flinched.

A wave of sorrow tore at me as I recalled my half-dreams, where he welcomed the contact of my hand on his forehead. I stopped and had to swallow it before continuing, but I found his curious eyes searching mine when I looked back to him, so I clenched my jaw and focused on my task till he left off observing me. Then I took a breath.

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

When I had finished cleaning up most of the blood, I said, “Would you like some tea?”

“God yes. I’m gasping. Is this how long you normally wait to offer tea to your guests?” His eyes were crinkly though the rest of his face was covered in tissues and his voice was deadpan.

I could play that game. “Ah, but you’re not a guest, Sherlock. You are, in fact, a lazy housemate. If I wasn’t afraid you’d bleed on the china I’d make you do it.”

“I’m not lazy, I’m injured!”

“You’re inconsiderate. How many times have you made tea in the past month and not offered me any?”

He crooked a tiny smile at this question and I smirked my way to the kitchen.

_Two cups of tea again. How long has it been?_  
(How long was it after The Fall before I finally left off making two out of habit?).

While I was waiting for the kettle to boil I wondered how often he had made tea for himself. I thought about the fact that he’d known how much it drove me mad, and yet he couldn’t help wanting a cuppa. _Inconsiderate._

If the kettle had taken another few seconds longer to start whistling, I might not have forgiven him for putting me through the ringer.

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

But then I sat at the table as the tea brewed and had enough time to replay everything in my head. I watched him fall all over again. Watched myself fall over, then fall apart. Watched Lestrade try to put me together enough to get a statement, then take me home and put me to bed. In Sherlock’s room. My legs wouldn’t work and he didn’t want to risk a second flight. Watched Mrs. Hudson bustle about and cluck and worry. Watched myself unable to move or speak. Watched the funeral play out like a movie, my anger boiling up at everything and everyone, the mantra in my head—Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!—when anyone tried to say anything about him. Watched myself sneer at Mycroft and ignore Molly.

Then I watched myself get hard and still and silent, showing no weakness, never losing control. Watched everyone back away, then keep away as I cocooned myself here in the flat. Watched myself wake up sweating, shouting, sobbing replaying The Call and then The Fall over and over. Watched the whiskey bottles mount up. The shouting and sobbing turning to mumbles and red rimmed, red shot eyes. The nightmares standing up and walking right through, leaving me gibbering on the corner of the couch.

I closed my eyes and there appeared his face full of blood, the sidewalk pooling, his wrist white and still.

I gasped for breath and pulled myself up and out of the kitchen, mugs in hand.


	5. Day 38 - 41 reality

(Day 38 cont'd)

When I returned with the tea he was propped up on the far side of the bed, as normal as can be, still holding the ball of now mostly red tissues to his nose. He put it down to take the mug from me and, after all those images in the kitchen, looking at his bloody nose made my hand start to shake again.

I sat down on the near side of the bed. “Oh Sherlock, I’m so—”

“No. No, John. I am. I’ve hated doing this to you. The Fall, the invisible flatmate routine, the suffering you have gone through, I wanted none of it. But there was nothing to be done. It had to be this way, for your safety. And mine.”

“If you say so.” I had to suppress the anger that bubbled up at this. Not necessarily at him, just a lot of general anger at the way things were and how they might not have needed to be. “But how did you survive the…thing.” I couldn’t say it after having just seen it again. I climbed onto the bed and propped myself up next to him. On the side I’d been sleeping on.

“With my usual amount of brilliance and ingenuity, a bit of luck, and the aid of a certain, very skilled, post-mortem expert.” My eyes widened and my lips pressed together at this bit of information. “No need to worry, she didn’t have to do it alone, because she didn’t have to do it at all.”

My first thought was: _Thank God for that._

My second was: _No wonder she avoids me._

The third was: _Shit. He knows everything about everything…_

**  
(Day 38 cont'd)

_…And I don’t know anything about what he’s been doing._

I looked over at him and saw that he already knew what I was going to ask, so I just raised my eyebrows and said, “and then…?”

“Oh, if you thought about it, I’m sure you could figure it out.”

“Please tell me you made sure Moriarty was dead.”

“As a doornail.”

“Wonderful.” An arched eyebrow met that response. “You think it is too, so shut up.” Both eyebrows raised high at that, lids low. _God, he knows me too well. And I, him. At least there is no judgment there._ “Let’s see, have you been ferreting out his minions?”

“Of course. There are quite a few more than you’d expect.”

“You’ve not bitten off more than you can chew, surely?” I found myself worrying about his safety in the same way I’d been worried about my own for the past couple weeks.

“No, of course not. I said there were more than you’d expect, not more than I did.”

“Of course.” Doesn’t take long for the exasperation to creep back in. “Have you let Lestrade in on it yet?”

“Almost.”

“What does that mean?”

“That it will soon be time to do things by the law.”

“Oh lord. All right. Fine. You seem to be managing without my help?” A reluctant half-nod. “You can continue that way until you invite Lestrade. I’m not trying to be a vigilante.”

“I’m not _trying_ to either. It’s just what happens to work best at the moment.” I scoffed, loudly. He pouted.

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

“All right, Sherlock. Maybe we should try to get some sleep? It’s so late it’s not even night time anymore and I slept horribly before you showed up. And you didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

“No. Not since…what day is it?”

“Oh for the love of… Just, let’s go to bed. All right?”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to.”

“Well I’d be surprised if the sleeping draught I put in your tea didn’t knock you out for at least 4 hours.”

“You sneaky—”

“Careful. Don’t insult the one who doles out the medicine…”

“You mean the one who put me in the patient’s role to begin with.”

“Well, yes. That too. But come on. It’s six in the morning. I can’t even see straight.”

“Fine. But I’m not moving.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to. This is your room, after all.”

“Right. Good.” He pulled the covers over his legs. I took that as my cue and moved to get up. “But I don’t want you to either.”

I motioned to the main room and the couch (the upstairs seemed too far away). “I’m perfectly capable of sleep—”

“But, as we’ve established, I’m the patient and I want you where I can see you.”

“You’ll be asleep.”

“Where I can hear you, then.”

“Oh my god—”

“Look, I’ve gotten used to your breathing. It helps me relax. Just do as I say, would you?” My mouth was tight and he knew I didn’t want to give in. “Come on, John. I’m injured for God’s sake. Look at me.” I tried, but only managed a glance at how puffy his nose had gotten, and how it was making the bruised eyes look as if they were set even further apart than they already were.

_Oh, Jesus. I did this._

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

_It looks awful._  
After all this time of just wanting to see his face again,  
The first thing i did was hit it with all my might.  
Made it almost unrecognizable.  
How is it that my initial reaction was to break it?  
To inflict pain upon it?  
On him. My best friend. 

In the light of day I think it was to show him, quickly and efficiently, what it had been like for me here, without him. Dealing with his death was exactly like getting punched in the nose, but without anyone to reset the bone. Something simple and straightforward about my life had been rearranged, never to be fixed. It affected my vision and my breathing for a long time, and it was obvious to anyone that saw me just how wounded I was by the blow.

(Also, if he was injured, maybe he wouldn’t be able to leave again right away.)

_God, it’s so nice to know he is right here._  
After all the nights I have had to conjure him up,  
he’s right here next to me.  
And when I wake up he will still be here. 

I allowed myself to relax into the feeling I had been missing for so long: of the sureness of Sherlock. It felt odd, yet familiar, like putting on a long forgotten jumper retrieved from the back of the closet. The feeling was so novel and so welcome that I let go my fear of having a nightmare audience just to revel in it a while longer.

“Fine.” I eventually admitted.

He was already starting to drift. “Hm? Good. Now go to sleep, you’ve had quite a shock. Do you have a blanket? Marvelous. I’d play you a lullaby, but I seem to be remarkably sleepy…” He trailed off into slumber, falling deeper than he’d allowed himself, probably for weeks. REM would come for him in about an hour, and I wondered idly what he would dream about. _I’ll have to remember to ask him._

I rolled over to face away from him and tried to allow everything in me to slow down and breathe. It was tougher than I thought. I was still quite wound up.

**

(Day 38 cont'd)

I should have given myself some of that sleeping draught as well, but I wanted to be as clear-headed as possible for anything that may have happened during the night.

Or may still happen.

My heart tripped and slammed hard into me, kicking up adrenaline in my veins.

_Just because he was the agent of all the odd things I’d noticed recently does not mean I’m not being watched by others._  
Or that he is.  
He could have been followed here,  
which means constant vigilance.  
I should get my gun, but I don’t want to wake Sherlock.  
I’ll wait a few more minutes before risking it.  
My God, If after all this time of us being apart,  
all this precaution for our safety,  
if they succeeded in killing him now… 

_Christ._

_I’d completely fall apart past any hope of being mended.  
Neither of us would survive a second Fall._

Absurd, maybe, but this humpty-dumpty moment is what finally brought my roller coaster emotions spilling over into tears. I cried as quietly as I was able, hoping not to disturb Sherlock. Trying to listen past my rhythmic exhales and sharp inhales to see if his breathing had changed any. Hoping to God if he heard me that he’d have the common decency (something he egregiously lacked) to deduce my embarrassment and not address it.

No telling which it was, but nothing was said for the rest of the night, and of this I am glad. I did wake up once or twice, always with the very real sound and sight and smell of him right there, close enough to touch. Of this I am also glad.

I confess to allowing myself one moment of reaching out to trail my fingertips along his forearm, barely skimming his shirtsleeve. Just a reassuring gesture. To ground me—us both—in reality. It was after I’d woken from a dream of standing on the roof of our building, looking out southeast over the city as a raven flew above, circling ever lower and tighter around me until he was so close he brushed my hair with his wing.

**

Day 39 

Woke up alone in bed. Sat up as if spring loaded, heart pounding. Looked around: my gun was on the dresser, the bloody towel and tissues were on the bedside table. His coat was still in a heap just inside the closet door frame, and his dressing gown was not on the hook behind the door.

_He did come. And he is still here._

Relief swept through in a tidal wave. I sat back and tried to imagine a world with him physically in it again. It was a bit daunting, somehow.  
But then, maybe not so oddly, my stomach rumbled. The odd part was my thought process afterward.

“Sherlock…?” I called into the main room as I got up and found my own dressing gown, crumpled under his coat.

“Mm…?” When I stepped out, he was lounging on the couch with his nose in the morning paper.

“Did you cook breakfast for me last week?”

“Mhm.”

“Why?” I stood directly in front of him till he flipped down the paper in annoyance. His eyes were purple and his nose was puffy. It was hard to look at.

“Because you were going to need it to soak up all the whiskey in your stomach. Which would have been a lot more if I hadn’t intervened. Why else?”

“Intervened?” Once I had his attention I turned and sat in my chair—my standard listening post.

He sighed. “Yes, while you were taking a piss I poured out most of what was left of the bottle. I figured you wouldn’t remember how much was in there to begin with. Or much of anything past that point, to be honest.”

“Thanks…” I said, sarcastically. Annoyance rose in me but it was mixed with relief. I hadn’t had the luxury of being annoyed at him for so long, it almost felt good. But there was also something else there: gratitude, grudging but real, and something soft that his care for me, however patronizing, hinted at.

“You’re Welcome.” He said this from behind the paper without a hint of irony, and I looked around for something to throw at him. Then I remembered his face. “I wasn’t going to let you drink yourself to death, how dull.” So dismissive. Still… he acted in my defense even if it would jeopardize his invisibility. And now he has appeared to me before I lost all grasp of reality.

He turned the page and his purple face reared itself at me like an accusation. I got up and went to the bathroom to get the ibuprofen.

 

**

(Day 39 cont'd)

_I don’t know why this physical hurt is so upsetting for me to see,_  
he has done so much worse to me emotionally over the past year and a half.  
And I him, I’m sure.  
We have hurt each other and saved each other’s lives so often I can’t keep track anymore.  
He has made it clear that he doesn’t need me and then been incapable of functioning without my help so many times I’ve given up trying to keep score.  
We have gotten on each other’s last nerve and then been the only one that understands so many times I can’t even fathom,  
and yet something about his coming back to me right now is important.  
Not just for me. Even though I will admit it’s (possibly literally) a life saver.  
But I know it can’t just be that, he must need something too.  
I don’t know how to ask him what that could be though,  
so I guess I’ll have to wait for him to tell me at some point. 

_God, he is frustrating._

**

(Day 39 cont'd)

When I held the painkillers out to him he said, “It’s all right, I already had some.”

“When?”

“At ten.”

“What time is it now?”

“Noon.”

“How many?”

“Two. Are we finished now, doctor?”

“Two’s not enough, take two more now and you can stagger doses like this, every 2 hours, for the rest of the day.”

“I’m fine, I’d prefer to not take them at all.”

“You won’t prefer the pounding headache that will come if you don’t follow doctor’s orders.”

“Why, are you going to hit me again?” he finally looked up at me on this.

“I won’t have to. Once was enough, believe me.” I rubbed my finger over the bridge of my nose at the memory of a drunken tussle with Harry years ago, shortly before I shipped out.

“Ah. Does your sister also have a killer left hook?” His eyes were locked on my face and wouldn’t let me go.

“Shut up and take your medicine, you prick.” I turned away so he couldn’t see the smirk that I could feel hooking one side of my mouth. “And I know you’ve still not met her, but haven’t you figured out yet that she’s right handed, for God’s sake?”

“Well, then it was a back-handed blow, which is interesting—”

“No it’s not. You want some tea?” I looked down at the coffee table and amended my statement, “some more tea?”

“Yes. Lovely.” I grabbed his nearly empty mug and escaped to the kitchen, already glad for some time alone.

**

(Day 39 cont'd)

I stood in our kitchen waiting for the water to boil, and looked around our rooms, feeling a sense of normalcy for the first time in a while. A sense of agency, as well. That I could finally clean up and air the place out. That there was a reason to do so again. It felt wonderful.

Of course, within days, maybe even within hours, the Second Law of Sherlock-dynamics would take hold and the entropy would be so much worse than what I had accomplished in a couple months, but no matter. I was almost looking forward to it, though I knew that feeling wouldn’t last long.

Still, I was surprised by how functional I felt upon waking. Is this really all it took? He shows up and I’m ship shape again? Was my complete deterioration the direct result of the belief that Sherlock was gone forever? Am I really that much of a sentimental twat?

Or is it just the knowledge that sharing rooms with someone else again means keeping my shit together better than I have been doing?

_It must be that, surely._

I started scrubbing down the kitchen as I waited for the tea. It’s amazing what a little physical labor will do to empty your mind of its preoccupations.

**

(Day 39 cont'd)

I returned with the tea just as he was done with the papers, leaving them strewn about the couch and it’s environs. I retreated to my chair with the crossword puzzle hoping to impose a bit more silence. I guess I wasn’t used to having someone around yet.

Of course, he chose this moment to be chatty. “What was it with the drinking thing, anyway? You were acting like you wanted to be an alcoholic.”

“How do you know I’m not one? It’s all over my family…”

“You aren’t. That’s so apparent even you can tell.”

“Maybe, but addictive behaviour is not something to take lightly.”

“True. Which is why I’ve never mentioned yours.”

“Mine…? Oh, so you can recognize one of your own?”

“Of course. It’s how I knew we’d get along.”

“You just told me I’m not an alcoholic, but I’m a drug addict? I’m not like you, Sherlock—” I didn’t care that it was mean to bring this up. He was being a right berk.

“Oh, John. Stop pretending you aren’t also an adrenaline junky. It’s embarrassing.”

“Whaat??” He just looked at me, superior and annoyed. And annoying, obviously. I gaped. “But…”

_Shit. He had a point._  
Risking my life is so much more fun than it should be. I’ve known that for years without actually admitting it.  
How the hell can he be right about things I don’t even know yet? 

“But how do you explain the last few months without you, then? No cases, no risky situations, no adrenaline fixes.”

“Untrue. You fabricated the intruder and created an entire emergency state around it. You know it’s not good to have adrenaline constantly flowing through your body. Right, doctor? The fatigue from your so-called ‘constant vigilance’ is in part what creates ptsd.”

“Don’t lecture me about this, I was in combat, you arsehole.”

“Exactly. And you wish you still were.”

_Fuck. so true.  
Why does he look so much like Mycroft in this moment?_

“Fine, but I didn’t start ‘constant vigilance’ until you messed around in the flat. What about before that, hm?”

“I can only assume you were finding an alternate source for it, and given the amount of time you spent asleep and how obsessed you seemed to be with dreaming, I can only deduce that you were getting it there.”

“Oh, shut up! You don’t know— I wasn’t having dreams like that. They were mundane and domestic, mostly.”

“Well, there must have been a charge somewhere…”

“Unlikely” I could feel my face getting warm. “Sometimes there were cases to solve…”

“…and sometimes there were wings.”

_God dammit._ “Yes, all right, I admit the flying dreams were somewhat exciting. Leave it alone now.”

“But John, you do know Freud’s interpretation of dreams about flying, don’t you?”

“No, huh uh. I never had truck with that stuff.”

“Well, look it up.” And he went back to looking through the papers. Or at least pretending to.

**

(Day 39 cont'd)

I hadn’t actually thought about how my choice to stop dreaming might not have been born just out of the fear of nightmares, but also the fear of becoming too attached to spending time with my dream Sherlock… especially when he had wings.

I have a general fear of addiction, it runs so deep in my family. I find that I’m pretty good at not getting addicted to substances, but sometimes I get addicted to scenarios. Or even people. Which is dangerous.  And Sherlock is right about adrenaline.

And somehow a dream of Sherlock-with-wings has become like a double dose of my favorite drug. Leave it to him to point this whole thing out. When he’s right like that it makes me so angry.

…Oh, good lord. I just looked up what Freud says about flying dreams. That’s embarrassing…maybe I should go back to sleeping upstairs. 

Maybe in a couple days, when he isn’t in so much pain…

 

**

Day 40

I’d gotten used to not being looked at. Observed.

All. The. Time.

I think I’ve mentioned that it was like living with a super conductor, sharing a flat with him. That is true, there is an almost audible hum that emanates from his brain at all times. Well, that’s exaggerating slightly, I guess. But not much. Especially when his attention is focused on you.

And by ‘you’ I mean, me.

I had forgotten how much effort it takes to disregard this attention. Because it’s neither complimentary nor generous, though it’s also not (usually) judgmental or critical. At least not in the bad connotation of those words. He is definitely making judgments and thinking critically, but in the most objective way possible. It can still get annoying sometimes to be around it all of the time. Especially because half the time he isn’t doing it for any real reason. Not out of care for me, not out of trying to connect with me as a person, just because I’m the closest specimen to observe and categorize and know every last detail about. I think he is trying to collect enough data that soon he will be able to read my mind.

Thankfully, he switches it completely off when he’s playing violin or working on his experiments. Which is a blessing and a curse, because then he will ignore me outright even when I need him to pay attention, if just for a moment. His powers of concentration are absolute. Almost uncanny. Though I have caught him once or twice doing an incredibly good impression of being focused on something else when really he is studying me.

I bet you think I should find it complimentary. I don’t. I know it’s nothing more than unbridled curiosity and a desire to escape from boredom. I know because I sometimes do it too.

**

Day 41

“Don’t even think about it, because you know I won’t. Let it go, okay?”

He looked kind of startled when I said this, then lowered his eyes and seemed to concede my point.

“I’d forgotten what it felt like.” he said this almost as an aside before looking hard at me and saying, “Why wouldn’t you do something that is clearly in your, and my, best interest?”

“Because it’s not. And you know it. I refuse to do something like that on a whim of yours. You know better than to ask me.” I paused for a second, then couldn’t help but take the bait. “Forgotten what what felt like?”

“To be in the presence of the world’s only consulting detective’s only consultant.” He smirked at this.

“What are you on about now?”

“How is it you can be so perceptive and so obtuse at the same time?”

“Me??”

He sighed. “Yes, John. You just sat here watching me think, following my whole train of thought (well, not the whole thing I’m sure, but close) in time to cut me off at the pass, then absolutely refused to admit that you have any of the skills I berate you for not using.” I was dumbfounded. And then it hit me that I had just done what he said.

The room had been silent for ten minutes before I spoke. There was no antecedent to our above conversation, aside from the evening news on the telly, which he had shut off in frustration. It had been outlining the Yard’s investigation of a crime he had just this afternoon told me he was sure was Sebastian Moran’s doing. Moran, Sherlock had informed me, was the sniper set to kill me the day of The Fall, as well as a major player in the London crime scene. This much he had figured out in the past couple months. The problem now was how to catch him before he learned SH was alive and decided to carry out JM’s order.

(Which, by the way, means that if Moran knows SH is alive, I was right to be as worried about my safety as I was. And SH can’t guarantee me that SM doesn’t know, either. Which isn’t very calming, obviously. He can make as much fun of ‘constant vigilance’ as he wants to. I will continue to do what I can to not get myself killed. Or him, for that matter. )

**

(Day 41 cont'd)

But I digress. Back to my observations that Sherlock pointed out:

He drew my attention when he turned off the telly, got up from the couch in a huff and stalked up to the windows. He now stays well back from them, or peeks out sideways, as both his silhouette and profile are distinctive, not matching mine in the least, and he is ‘reasonably sure’ that there is someone set to watch the flat at all times.

He quickly got bored of how little he could see from his vantage point and wandered to his armchair, flopping into it with a sigh. He then sat there for a good couple minutes, alternately rubbing his lips and chin with one hand and drumming his fingers on the armrest with the other, depending on if he was working out a solution to the Moran problem or shooting it down as an impossibility. His eyes kept wandering to the door and then to the window, which made me sure that he wanted to leave the flat but was afraid of being seen.

Then he made a moue of impatience and cast his eyes toward the desk, which I would have thought meant he was looking for my computer, but it was on my lap at the time. Then when his eyes went to his bedroom, I realized it wasn’t my computer but my gun he was thinking about. It used to live in the desk drawer before The Fall—before a few weeks ago actually—but now I still sleep with it under my pillow.  
The connection I made from all these observations is a horrible idea, and definitely beneath him, but I knew when he glanced at my shoes he was contemplating trying it nonetheless. He only looks at my shoes when he can’t help but look my direction, but doesn’t want to be seen looking at me directly. I was certain of his motives when he started rubbing his right thigh. It’s something he does in subconscious empathy with me when he thinks about wounds, which is what made me reasonably sure that he was planning on at least incapacitating the lookout with my gun, if not killing him outright. The whole idea, but especially the latter of the outcomes, he knows I would look down upon, hence his focus on me.

Not to mention the fact that Sherlock is not a sharp shooter. Which is basically what he would need to be in order to wound a loiterer across the street from our windows. Therefore, when I caught him looking in the direction of my shoes one last time, I finally spoke up and told him that the whole thing was foolish and he shouldn’t even entertain the idea that he could convince me to be his sniper. which gave me away as having watched his every move for the past ten minutes.  
oh well, he can use a taste of his own medicine.

“Touche,” I said. “But you know I’m right. Think of another way around it and I will be right behind you. One hundred percent.”

“You take all the fun out of everything.” He pouted at me but with amusement and an infinitesimal wink in his eye. “But good deduction, nonetheless.”

I smiled—a bit lopsidedly—and refrained from responding, but only because I was somewhat abashed by the hint of pride in his gaze. I’m not sure I’ve ever merited that before. At least not to the point that he’d acknowledge it to my face.

It felt good.


	6. Day 42 - 45 Bed times

Day 42

“John, come to bed. I can’t sleep.”

I was lying on the couch in my pajamas with my laptop, fully planning on sleeping there, when he came out of his room, rumpled, squinty, and in a huff.

“That’s not my problem, Sherlock. I’m sleeping here. And if I were to ‘come to bed’ it would not be in yours.”

He looked tired and irritated, possibly in pain. I started calculating the amount of painkiller in his system given the day’s dosage schedule.

“But you have been coming to my bed every night for more than a month. I don’t understand why you would stop now.”

_of course you wouldn’t, you prat._

“Because you’re in it, now.” He just looked at me. “Yeah, okay, well now I’m aware of the fact that you are in it. I can’t be blamed for something I didn’t know about.”

“No one is blaming you for anything. Except for pretending you are not welcome somewhere you clearly are.”

“I didn’t say I felt unwelcome, I said…” I paused and looked at him. He was still bruised and swollen, but I could discern his state of mind, or what traces of it he let show, on his face. It wasn’t irritation flitting around his mouth and eyebrows so much as agitation. I had to reassess what I was focusing on. And I needed time to do it. “You need to take more meds before bed, anyway. Be back in a sec.” I got up and went to the bathroom as he stalked back into his room.

**

(Day 42 cont'd)

He’d stopped complaining about taking the pills by the afternoon of the first day, so it was clear he was in pain. Therefore the last couple nights I’d continued my habit of sleeping in his bed so I could wake him up and give him the doses on time. But he was healing just fine and it was starting to get ridiculous.

No, scratch that. I was feeling ridiculous. As if I couldn’t be away from him, even in sleep, after he came back. Ugh.

I’ve only ever done well when I was needed, not when needy. I start to hate myself if I fall into the latter frame of mind. His injury had let me feel needed, but I couldn’t pretend like that was really true anymore. It was now at the point where I didn’t have any reason to sleep in his bed except that I wanted to very badly.

This was why I was camped on the couch. It was time to pull away. Not far, obviously, I wasn’t moving back upstairs yet. But as much comfort as I had been drawing from his bed and, for the last couple days, the knowledge of his presence, I wasn’t going to let myself need it. 

Or at least I wasn’t going to let him see me need it. (especially not with the spectre of Freud sitting, fingers steepled, on the edge of his—and now my—perception of my nights. Our nights.)

**

(Day 42 cont'd)

But now he basically just came out and told me he needs it. Needs my presence. My proximity. And he seems to feel no shame in that. Probably because he can explain it away as something habitual. Something around sleep patterns and biofeedback. And I know for me it’s not about anything but my state of mind. My mental health, even. My emotional health, really.

Waking up in the middle of the night knowing he is right there, alive and nearby, means that I’m not crazy. It means that I haven’t been dreaming this whole thing only to wake up one day to find him gone once again. Truly dead. That I haven’t just been wishing so hard for the nightmare to stop that I’ve convinced myself it has. It means I’m not irretrievably broken, which that fearful scenario would clearly indicate.  
It’s the only way I can possibly get any real sleep.

I stood there, staring at my reflection in the mirror as I filled his water cup.

_God, I need him to want me in his bed so badly, I can’t deal with the fact that he might already do so. How fucked up is that?_

 

** 

(Day 42 cont'd)

I walked in and handed him his pills and water, noting the time. He was on the far side of the bed, the one he had been frequenting for some time, and he was getting ready to curl up and go to sleep. I sat down at the foot of the bed, which made him stop fussing with the sheets.

“So…you actually want me to continue sleeping in your bed with you?”

“Yes, of course.” He seemed confused as to why I need ask.

“Why?”

“I told you, I sleep better when you are near.” He didn’t look at me, was focused on tracing circles on the duvet with the pad of his finger.

“Yes, but why?”

“Because I can match my breathing to yours and calm my mind listening to it.”

“That’s how, not why.”

He sighed, exasperated. “I don’t know, John. Because…” He looked up at me closely, but not as if he were studying me, deducing things. Just as if he wanted to remember my face. “Because knowing you are safe makes me believe that everything’s secure enough to turn off my brain for a bit.”

“Is it?”

“Well, honestly, if you are safe then everything here is safe, and really, nothing else matters.” He’d gone back to his circles.

“Except you.”

“Me?” He glanced up for just a second.

“You being safe matters.”

“Marginally.”

“Not to me. To me it’s important.”

“I know. You’ve saved my life enough times to prove that without a doubt.” He specifically caught my eye with what looked like gratitude in his. I knew that was as close to him saying ‘thank you’ as I was going to get.

“Well, thanks for caring about mine.” My voice had softened, as had my eyes, but not the rest of my face, I was sure of that.

“Of course.” He seemed to freeze for a minute, even closed his eyes as if in pain, and I almost asked if he was all right, but then he came back as if he hadn’t been gone and said,“Now get in bed so I can sleep.” He turned on his side as he delivered that last statement and I couldn’t see his face.

“Dunno if I should. Is it safe?” I tried to catch his eye as I spoke, but it barely alighted on me before flying off again.

“Aside from the fact that there is a loaded firearm under your pillow, yes. Very.”

 

**

(Day 42 cont'd)

I laughed, he chuckled. It helped to diffuse some of the tension building up at the base of my spine around climbing into bed with him. I don’t know where the nerves came from, we had been doing this for a couple nights now. I guess it was knowing that it wasn’t just something convenient for him because he’s injured, it’s something he wants for peace of mind.

But God, it’s nice to know I’m not the only one that finds peace of mind in someone else’s presence. I never would have guessed that Sherlock needed something like that from an outside source. Aside from his nicotine habit, that is.

But that means we are somewhat dependent on each other. Which is somehow quite worrisome.

Also, it could mean that he has other motives for getting me to continue coming to his bed. Should I worry about the message this sends if I’m willing to be here after the subject of sex has been introduced via Freud? (I can’t get away from that damned implication, and wonder if he made it on purpose.)

I guess the real question is, does it matter? Will it actually change anything? (and do I even care?)

He has never seemed to have any inclination for sex with anyone—not even Irene—nor has he ever made any advances on me. Because of this, I feel fine going off of the evidence at hand in predicting future outcomes. (God, I sound like him.) So, no. I foresee no change. The jab about Freud was just that, a poke in the ribs to irk me, with nothing behind it. I think.

Though the embarrassment about the implication isn’t as annoying as the association of Sherlock and sex that now exists in my head.

 

**

(Day 42 cont'd)

We had settled in on our separate sides of the bed, more than a foot apart, and I’d turned out the light when I heard:

“It helps you to be able to check that I’m real, doesn’t it?” His voice was soft but resonant, and felt very close in the dark.

_Shit. Nothing is secret._

“…yes. It does. Do you mind?” I was so quiet I was practically mouthing the words.

“Not at all.”

“It’s just that my dreams have been so vivid, and waking from them, it’s hard to tell…”

“I know.” I had to keep myself from reaching out to ground his voice.

“I need to know I’m not crazy.” I felt crazy inside just saying this.

“It’s all right. You aren’t. I’m not going to disappear.” I realized I’d been holding my breath, needing to hear his words perfectly, to let them sink into my psyche so that I wouldn’t be anxious all the time.

“…At least, not without telling you where I’m headed first.”

That made me let out my breath with a tiny chuckle mixed in. Then I took in enough air to give actual voice to my last statement: “Thanks, Sherlock.”

“You’re welcome, John.” I could still feel his name in my mouth when I heard my own come from his. They were the last words we each said before we fell asleep.

 

**

Day 43

I am keenly embarrassed to admit this, but I can’t not write about it. So here goes:

The flying dreams have come back.

I don’t quite know what to do with that. I’m trying not to feel odd when I wake up from one and SH is there. A foot away. (I wish he had never mentioned Freud…)

I feel like such a fool. But it’s my subconscious, I don’t have any control, really.

And I still very much enjoy them, is the thing. The dreams are just so much fun. Even the one last night where we were flying through a thunderstorm. It was so exhilarating. And dangerous, I suppose. But I never felt afraid. The clouds were mountainous and thick and chilling to fly through. Breeding grounds for lightning—lots of little electric arcs flying—but they never shocked us, just succeeded in making us feel supercharged with energy.

I mean me. I shouldn’t speak for SH. Though the electricity seemed to flow through both of us so much that I think we would have thrown sparks back and forth if we hadn’t already been touching. (Part of me wishes I had my own wings to be able to fly where I pleased, but another part still very much enjoys SH carrying me, and he never complains of the burden…)

And when we went winging right near a lightning bolt just as it had built up enough charge to shoot itself downwards, that was fantastic. They flash the most intense fire, white hot. Amazing.

The shot of energy that is induced is like more adrenaline than could possibly course through a human body. You want to shout out loud with the release of it. Or, I do.

And I think I might have done once, in real life, because the dream ended abruptly right after that and I woke with the shadow of pressure on my arm. Sherlock looked like he was asleep, but his hand rested close to me on the bed and his breathing shifted when I rolled over and gave him my back.

Which made me fall asleep thinking about how, while we flew, I’d vividly felt the warmth of his chest against it.

**

Day 44

Had a disturbing dream last night that was mostly made up of me being irate with Sherlock over some experiment that he was working on. I had a bad feeling about it and when I asked he wouldn’t tell me what he was doing. I became livid and yelled at him till he admitted he was making some sort of designer drug. He swore it was just to sell, as if that was okay, though I almost agreed that it was better than if he was making it for his own consumption. I didn’t believe that he wasn’t going to hold back a few doses and was tempted to narc on him to Greg. I woke up before making a decision but the thing that stuck with me was the passion with which I gave him a dressing down.

My verbal attack of him and the emotions behind it were intense enough to stay with me upon waking and disconcertingly clouded my whole morning. Luckily he wasn’t home so the dream interaction didn’t colour our real life interactions at all. That would have felt strange. Not right. I don’t want dream world affecting real life at all, if I can help it.

I also don’t want to be fighting with Sherlock. Either one, dream or real.

**

(Day 44 cont'd)

It was odd, however, to wake up with him not here. I panicked for a moment until I saw the note he’d left on his pillow. Which was quite considerate of him. He’s never done that before and I was confused until I remembered his promise the other night: No disappearing.

He is taking care. It’s strange.

I have always been the caretaker. Not just with him, but all my life. It’s definitely my role in my family. Obviously with Harry. But she made it clear in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want my care or concern anymore when she split with Clara. (which coincided with her going down a bad road, yet she wouldn’t even speak to me, so I had to let her go. That was hard.)

And that was right around the time when I met Sherlock. Who desperately needed taking care of. It took both Mrs. Hudson and myself to do it most of the time. And honestly, it was not an easy job. Worth it, yes. But not easy.

However now he seems to want to be taking care of me. It’s somewhat confusing. Not that he didn’t show his share of concern for my welfare before, but this is something different. A debt repaid, maybe? Making up for the lost time? Because I was nothing if not lost during his absence, that is clear.

Maybe it’s simply that the Moran threat, based off of Moriarty’s legacy, is enough to keep him worried. And if Sherlock is worried, you know something is not right. Not sure what, yet. But that’s not really my area.

Sherlock is my area. I know how to take care of him, and I’m good at it. Even if I’m not very good at taking care of myself. Or letting someone else take care of me. This is what friends do, tho. Isn’t it? Take care of each other.

I’ve never really thought of Sherlock as having any actual friendship skills. I feel like I’ve been teaching him our entire time together. Maybe he has actually learned some stuff.

Strange, though. For me. I’ll have to let it feel okay somehow. Not assume he’s trying to, oh I don’t know, drug me with tainted sugar every time he makes me some coffee. (That’s not fair. That’s not what I meant.)

I can figure out how to not be threatened by a bit of role shift. He isn’t taking my job away from me, just reciprocating and sharing the burden. For once.

Might be nice.

**

Day 45

Jesus.

Had the worst nightmare since the demon dream last night.

I was back at the foot of Saint Bart’s, and Sherlock was up on the roof saying goodbye.

We were on the phone, his voice was breaking, as was my heart. Then he tossed his phone away and I was about to scream his name when he jumped, but the moment his feet left the ledge his wings unfurled. I shouted in triumph. He took off overhead and I felt like I could lift up with him.

Then two shots rang out, one to hit and break each wing. He spun in the air as each one crumpled, then fell into a tailspin, dropping like a rock.

I screamed the word ‘No!’ as loud as I could and was on the sidewalk moments later, his blood pooling around us but his eyes not yet glassy. 

I was clutched with full-on panic, totally unable to assess his wounds or do anything to help. He was looking at me and trying to speak.

“John…”

“What is it, Sherlock? What?” He reached up to grab my arm and pull me closer to him. I obliged, leaning down to his face. As I looked, I could see his life draining out of his body.

“John, John…” His eyes emptied as his head began to loll. I was helpless and shaking him, unable to breathe, on the verge of sobbing in frustration.

“What?” My ear was right up to his mouth at this point, I could feel the last of his breath, was straining to hear.

“John, _wake up._ ”

I jolted up and awake at the same moment, my arm on Sherlock’s, his on me. I gasped as if coming up from the depths.

“My God. Oh, my God.”

“You all right?” We were both sitting up in bed, he was peering closely through the darkness at my face.

“I’m…” For just a moment, the image of his death mask was superimposed on the concerned face in front of me. But then I blinked and it cleared. I felt weak with relief. I leaned my head onto his shoulder, feeling his collarbone beneath my forehead, his breath on my cheek. I took a deep breath and put my hand on his chest as I pulled away. We were still holding each other’s biceps, hard from the panic, now an arm’s length away. His pulse was elevated under my palm. “I’m fine now, thanks.”

“Are you sure? Your shout woke me from my own dream. And it took me a while to get you to come out of yours.” He relaxed his grip.

I still felt wobbly from the fright and the startling wake-up and didn’t want to let go yet, but I began to anyway. “God, I’m sorry. I don’t want to keep…maybe I should sleep up—”

“No.” He didn’t let go of me, even reached with his other hand to grab the nape of my neck and squeeze it. “I don’t want you waking like this alone.”

**

(Day 45 cont'd)

I almost fell into his arms in gratitude. I refrained, however. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Yes I’m sure. I need to know it’s a dream too. If I heard you shout like that from another room, I would…well, I would be ready to…” He went from searching my face to trailing his eyes towards the head of the bed.

“What?”

His gaze locked on my pillow. “…to kill whoever was hurting you.”

I pulled away from him. He allowed me to, but tried to regain eye contact. I couldn’t. “I don’t want that.”

“It’s not a matter of what you want. It’s simply how I would react. My fight or flight response is strong.”

“But Sherlock…”

“I can’t help it, John. The point is, I’d need to know as soon as possible that you were safe, if distressed.”

“Right.”

“Which I’m sorry you were.” I nodded my thanks. “Would it help you to talk about it?”

I shook my head. “I’d rather forget it. Tell me about yours instead.”

He looked away with the shadow of a grin. “You sure you want to hear it?”

“As long as it’s not a nightmare like mine, yes…though, not if you don’t want to tell me.”

“I don’t mind. I apologize in advance if you do.”

“What? Why?”

“I was flying.” His grin widened. “Well, not at the start. First I was back at the top of Saint Bart’s, saying goodbye to you, reliving it all again. Which was more than a little bit painful. Except that when I jumped this time, these great bloody wings opened and I flew off over the rooftops.” My mind reeled. I must have moaned. “What? It was glorious, I understand what you mean now.”

“No. No, Sherlock. I can’t. Don’t fuck with me.” My head was in my hands, which hopefully muffled my thick voice.

“I’m not. And what could I possibly gain by teasing you at this moment?” He looked genuinely confused.

“You aren’t playing with me, are you?”

“No. What do you take me for?”

“At this point, I don’t know. But this is not okay. I can’t do this. You aren’t allowed to be both here and in my dreams. Not the same you. It’s not…fair.”

“What are you on about?”

“The nightmare I just had was the same as your dream, the roof, the conversation, the jump, even the wings. But then a sniper shot and broke them as you flew and you fell to your death anyway. I watched you die. Again. It was…” I couldn’t finish, my voice wouldn’t come. He put his arm on my shoulder, eyes alight.

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. But it’s completely fucked up and I don’t want it. I’m going to go sleep on the couch.” I had gone queasy and was moving slowly.

“Don’t bother, I won’t sleep for the rest of the night. New problem. Requires at least one patch…” He was out of the bed before finishing his speech. “Good night, John. Sleep well.”

_Yeah, right._

I lay on my back staring at the shadows on the ceiling for the rest of the night. I finally dozed as the sun rose and slept until after noon. 

Dreamlessly, thank God.

**

(Day 45 cont'd)

_“It’s well we cannot hear the screams we make in other people’s dreams.” ―Edward Gorey_

Trying hard to not be really embarrassed when thinking about this. I doubt he has had a full night’s sleep without interruption from me and my damned nightmares, and now…

Now it won’t be that he is woken by my screams, but that he is witness to them in dreamworld. God this is insane.

And I thought sharing the same bed was going to be a more intimate situation than I was ready for (with anyone, let alone him), and now this.

It just can’t be good for either of us.

**

(Day 45 cont'd)

Much of what I thought about all night was how, since he had come back, I had been able to keep real life Sherlock separate from the dream Sherlock I’d been living with in my head. I mean, clearly one sometimes had wings and the other didn’t, but that wasn’t the only difference. They were subtle but many and I was almost always able to tell the two men apart.

A big part of that ability, however, was the knowledge that when I woke, Real Sherlock had no idea what had gone on in my dreams (or at least, nothing specific). That whatever we had been experiencing, Dream Sherlock and I, was not a part of his waking understanding.

Like that massive argument about making drugs. When he came home that evening, his brain was full of his day and deep in a reality where I had never spewed invective at him about his addictive tendencies. Thank God. It helped me be able to forgive and forget. To ease the anger and resentment and disappointment out of me and not hold onto something that was not his doing. Something that was, disturbingly or no, all in my own head.

But now…

Now that he seemed to be sharing dreamworld with me, I started to feel a lot less stable. You’d think I might take comfort in his presence, but not like this.

**

(Day 45 cont'd)

When I thought him dead and was losing myself, I was missing him so hard I had to conjure him in my sleep, which was comforting to an extreme. So it didn’t feel odd to fall into that comfortable place and take solace from it. Because there was nothing else. Losing myself in it was preferable to losing myself completely. And it saved me, to have Dream Sherlock to look forward to.

But now he’s here. With me again in real life. And we are back to functional. (And by ‘we’, I mean me.) Which means I shouldn’t need the nighttime solace anymore. And I don’t think I do. It’s there, I still dream of it, but it’s not my lifeline anymore. He is.

Which is why, now that he himself might be the person I dream about (not just about,  _with_ ), I’m starting to worry. When it was just Dream Sherlock I was falling into—a product of my imagination and therefore part of me— it was fine to lose myself in him. But now…Sherlock the man—the separate entity, the person all his own—is here  _and_  in my dreams. And I can’t let myself fall into him.

Because I was just in the process of figuring out my self again. I was just feeling like a human being again instead of a somnambulist or someone’s prey. And I was working on how to assert my autonomy. Sherlock takes up all the light in a room. And then he glows with it. And I inevitably bend toward him because of it. But he values me as a reflecting device, which I’m happy to be. And we are able to find an equilibrium sometimes, which I thought we were getting close to this week.

But then I caved and stayed in his bed when I knew it was time to leave. And now the scales have tipped and I’m going to lose myself again. 

Except this time it will be to an actual person instead of a phantom. Or both, really. Which is worse.

I need to nip this in the bud.


	7. Day 46 and 47: together and separate

Day 46

I stepped out into the main room to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, hands pressed together as if in prayer (but in his case deep concentration) his eyes staring into space. 

“Ah, John. Sit down, I want your full concentration. I need to you tell me everything about your dream.”

“No you don’t. You saw it yourself.” I refused to sit during this.

“I can’t assume that, I need to get proof.”

“Not from me, you don’t.”

“There is no one else to get it from. Why are you being so difficult? This is positively fascinating.”

“I’m glad you think so, but it’s terrifying me.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I can, and I am.”

“But it’s so exciting, John! Come on, have a little imagination. This could be really useful—”

“Don’t. This is not an experiment, Sherlock, this is my life. And my psyche. And I feel like I’m losing control of it.”

“Which?”

“What?”

“Which? Your life, or your psyche?”

“Both! And you are not helping!” He was so bloody calm, I have no idea how he could be so bleeding calm. It drove me up the   
wall.

“Look, there are a handful explanations I can come up with for this phenomenon, and only one of them questions your sanity. Does that help?”

“Only a tiny bit. Which is not enough to make me want to relive that nightmare.”

“Damn.”

“God, you are impossible. Have you forgotten the state I was in when I woke up? Did you erase that from your hard drive to make room for this ‘exciting phenomenon’? Because I haven’t. I can’t.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I haven’t forgotten, but neither should you. We need to be in the same bed in order to sleep. We’ve established that twice over at this point. If sharing dreams is the side effect, we are going to have to figure out how to deal with it.”

“No. Fuck this. I refuse to be your guinea pig. Do whatever experiments you need to on yourself, alone in your bed, because I’m sleeping on the couch or in my own room from now on.” I turned to leave.

“John.”

I started for the door, then remembered the lookout. Damn.

“John.”

I headed for his room, threw open the window, and scrambled out onto the fire escape, climbing up to the rooftop.

“John!” He was poking his head out the window, but when I swung my legs over onto the roof he pulled it back inside. I half expected him to follow, but a couple minutes later I heard the violin and knew that he had retreated as completely as I had.

**

(Day 46 cont'd)

I spent the rest of the day up on the roof. It was a welcome break from the flat, and being taller than any of the buildings across the street, just as safe. Sherlock played the violin all afternoon into the evening so I felt free to go back down to make a sandwich and grab a book, as there is no way to distract him once he is lost to it. It was probably quite foolish to open the windows and let the sound of him playing out into the street, but I appreciated that he did so nonetheless, whether it was intended for me to hear or no. Because he played really beautiful stuff. Some of it his, some of it pieces I recognized as part of his repertoire, and once in a while he threw in a popular tune, which made me chuckle. If I didn’t know any better I would say I was being courted back down with a serenade.

But I do know better. He was just keeping himself occupied, and thinking through things. He had fallen into himself and I was not a concern for him at the moment.

And therefore, I spent the time staring at the sky and reading my novel and enjoying a perfect spring day. Not thinking about Sherlock Holmes and his uncanny ability to get inside my head, even when sleeping.

The sunset was gorgeous. I was tempted to text him to come look. It was hazy enough that the sky went in thick, solid bands of orange and red and then blue-grey right by the horizon, in which the sun itself sat like a big red dot above the houses. Very striking. I thought for a moment I heard him play the refrain from ‘red rubber ball’, but I could be making that up.  
Made me smile nonetheless.

**

(Day 46 cont'd)

It was cold and dark and damp. A cellar, maybe? I was up against a wall, peering round a corner at the silhouetted back of a well dressed man pointing a torch at something and laughing. He had a weird cadence to his voice. I shifted quietly till I could see what he was illuminating, and my heart stopped. Sherlock, bound and gagged and shoved into a dog crate.

“Since I can’t find your pet, I’ll have to keep you in here for now.” Everything turned to ice. That was Moriarty’s voice. “Don’t worry, it won’t take long. Then you will be reunited. Won’t that be a happy _ending_?” Sherlock was straining against his bonds and squinting malevolently at Moriarty behind the torch’s beam. “Does he know how obsessed you have become with me? He’s sure to be jealous, Sherlock, you really should watch yourself.” He raked the rim of the torch across the bars but Sherlock did not react to the provocation. “Ah well, since you’re no fun I guess I’ll have to go find Ja-awn. I think I’ll bring him back here to dance for your amusement, would you like that?” Sherlock’s breathing came harder and Moriarty chuckled. “Good. Get excited. It will be a wild ride.”

And with that, JM clicked off the torch and walked up the stairs to his left.

As quietly and quickly as I could, I crept to Sherlock’s cage. There was enough moonlight to see him in there, on his knees, in his shirtsleeves, his hands behind his back, his wrist bindings attached to the ankle ones. I didn’t have to say anything, just touched his shoulder and he scooted close to me so I could reach through the bars to cut the rope with my pocket knife. When his hands were free he pulled the gag out of his mouth but didn’t speak. He motioned to the high window behind the cage and I stepped cautiously up to it and checked if the coast was clear. I quietly opened it and looked back to see Sherlock still struggling to pick the lock on the crate. I found bolt cutters on the shelf nearby and broke the lock off. He stepped out, smoothed his clothes, ran a hand through his hair, nodded to me and went to the window where he gave me a leg up and followed swiftly behind. I was looking around for which way to run when he tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the fire escape. I followed him up, hoping we wouldn’t be seen from below.

His head had just cleared the roof when a fist smashed heavily into his face and he lost his grip on the ladder, falling past me toward the ground. I yelled for him, then looked back up at the ledge and saw a sleek, hawk-like face grinning evilly down at me. I pulled out my gun and fired repeatedly at the horrible wide mouth, the dark glinting eyes, stopping only when Sherlock called out to me.

Which woke me up.

**

(Day 46 cont'd)

I was lying on the roof, having dozed off after the light faded. I was chilled and stiff but moved quickly to get back inside, agitated till I saw him. He was asleep in the bed, but as I climbed in the window he murmured my name. He was lying on his side, his legs splayed out and one arm bent awkwardly under his head. I leaned over and gently shook his shoulder.

“Ow. John, I can’t move.” He sounded more than half asleep still.

“Yes you can, Sherlock, get up.” I rested my hand on his hip and patted it, a double tap.

“No, I think I’m paralyzed, the fall…” His brow was furrowed, he was shaking his head, and then his eyes were open and sternly focused on me. I pulled my hand away. “Oh.” He blinked and looked around. “Right. Of course.” He winced as he pulled his arm out from under him, rubbing his other hand along the forearm and biceps.

“Numb?” I ventured, as he rolled on his back toward me and I sat on the edge of the bed.

“Yes.”

“That explains ‘paralyzed’.”

“What?”

“You said you were paralyzed before I got you to wake.”

“Mm. From the fall.”

“St. Bart’s again?”

“No. Off the fire escape when Moran punched me.”

I shivered. Started to go numb myself.

“Cold? Were you up on the roof this whole time?”

“Yes, but no. Well, yes and no. and Yes. That was Moran?”

“What?” His face had cleared from sleep but was confounded now by my words.

“Let me in.” He slid over and held open the covers. I kicked my shoes off and climbed in, curling up, wanting to hide my head. He was still looking at me, somewhat puzzled and expectant.

“John?”

“Yes, I’m cold, but that’s not why I shivered. Yes, I was up on the roof so it doesn’t matter if we are in the same bed or not, because we are still connected that far away.”

“What are you saying? That you saw—”

“The dream I just had started in a dark cellar with you tied up in a cage, Moriarty shining a torch at you, and referring to me as your pet. It ended with me shooting the guy who must be Moran in the face after you fell off the fire escape.”

“Oh Christ. All right, then.”

**

(Day 46 cont'd)

“What about yours?”

“Well…it started pleasantly enough in another room of the house and then things shifted—like they do in dreamworld—and suddenly it was Moriarty who had me trussed up in a kennel. The escape was almost disappointingly easy, I wonder if that was your influence.” I cocked a warning eyebrow at him. “I didn’t mean—I meant that you have a straightforward way of thinking, so all our obstacles had simple, handy solutions. Which is much better than what my brain comes up with. Believe me, I appreciated it.” He seemed sincere, almost complimentary, so I let it pass. “I failed to witness you shooting Moran (and Moran that was—a product of my brain clearly since you don’t know what he looks like) because I was busy landing on the sidewalk in a way that seemed to have broken my neck. I couldn’t move any of my limbs. I called to you and you came. And you told me to get up. I told you I couldn’t. Then you reached out your hand and tugged on my cuff and I rose to standing, good as new.” He looked down at his hand, which he was flexing.

“And that’s when you woke up?”

“Correct.”

“Think you can go back to sleep?” I was still feeling chilled and numbed by this whole thing, not wanting to parse out the implications just yet.

“Don’t know, why?”

“I’m going to. Could use the company.”

“Not right there, surely?”

“What, in your bed like you’ve _asked_ me to?” exasperation filled my voice. _It surely doesn’t matter now…_

“No, on _my side_ of the bed. Can’t we switch?”

“Oh, good Lord. Fine, but you go ‘round.” He got out of bed on ‘my’ side and walked around the foot of it as I scootched over under the covers.

He climbed back in and propped himself up against the headboard. My back was to him when he started to muse out loud about our dreams. “You know, I think that dream was mine to begin with, and you joined it. The one before I’m not so sure about. Might have been yours, it went on longer for you…”

I tuned him out and fell asleep.

**

Day 47

I woke up at first light, curled up and facing Sherlock who was on his back, his shoulder six inches from my forehead. He is always awake first but I realized I’d gone to sleep remarkably early and he’d probably kept himself up thinking through the dream situation. I lay there for a minute looking at his profile back lit by the early morning sun that slanted through the window. I’d never seen him so still. So calm. The lack of tension in his body and face was almost unnerving, as if someone had finally pulled the plug on the perpetual motion machine. He was too deep to be dreaming but I wondered idly what it was like when he did it without me.

After a bit I got up, ever so quietly, worried any noise would register on his too sensitive radar and wake him. I wouldn’t have risked it if I didn’t need to be alone to think through some things from yesterday. I flopped onto the couch to mull over why I’d felt the need to be up on the roof, and to decide whether I had been a fool about it.

I didn’t want to admit it, but Sherlock was right. There was nothing to do but figure out how to deal with the fact that we were now dreaming together. Before this, the last thing I wanted to be true was that I needed him nearby in order to sleep, but that was already patently obvious, for both me and him. And now it didn’t even matter whether we were nearby, it seemed, to overlap in dreamworld. Which made that argument a moot point. Since we were already falling into each other whether we were in close physical proximity or not, what would it matter if we were, I guess.

But as much as this dream connection scared the bejesus out of me, I was starting to see it’s advantage too. It actually helped to be able to talk things through after we had dreamt them, especially when they were hard. However, the main disadvantage was the problem here: having no divide between who I spent time with in waking life and who I hung out with in dreamworld was going to make for a confused brain. Or just a very focused one. On one person. All Sherlock all the time.

You might say: And…? What’s the difference between that and the rest of your life?

And I would say: Not much, but enough. I used to have at least a little separation, a bit of down time. I used to have either the time I was sleeping, or the time I was awake, away from him. Now I have nothing. And I will surely lose myself.

Which I cannot allow myself to do. And which is (at least subconsciously) why I picked a fight with him yesterday and stalked up onto the roof. It was good for me to have time away from him. I need to get out of the house more.

Goal for today: make it happen.

**

(Day 47 cont'd)

Not in actuality a difficult goal, just had to put on shoes and a jacket and then actually walk down the stairs. How novel a concept.

Well, it wasn’t that simple. I waited until Sherlock woke to ask about the lookout and what exactly he is looking out for—what I have to worry about. He was informed and thorough but once he mentioned ‘Mycroft’ and ‘surveillance’ in the same sentence everything felt a lot less perilous. So I decided to spend the day out of the house, mild-manneredly walking around public areas in the daylight. Safe enough by any standards.

Of course, Sherlock wanted to make it more complicated, so I first had to endure his explanation of all the ways in which I had to be cautious while out and about, practically all of which I know, had even employed before during my short-lived need for contact with the outside world. Oh well. Had to give him some consolation, since it was obvious he was annoyed and concerned and trying not to show it. One of his big precautions these days is that if he leaves the house then I can’t, and vice versa, so being cooped up all day was not going to leave him in a good mood this evening. Envy and boredom are not a good combination on anyone, but look particularly bad on him.

Thankfully, he understood my need to leave. Didn’t even think to question that. I just told him I was going out and he nodded and proceeded to give me advice.

**

(Day 47 cont'd)

Anyway, it was another lovely day out and I very much enjoyed being in it. I walked around the park, got a coffee at one stand and an ice cream at another, sat in the sun and read my book, watched the paddle boaters disturb the herons on the lake, bought a cone of chips as I walked back to baker street, and then stopped still in front of the door.

It hit me right then how much I wanted to see Sherlock. It had only been a few hours since I’d left but I’d walked back home without really thinking. My steps had been quickening for the last block, and by the time I arrived at 221 I was almost out of breath and my heart rate was oddly high. I guess it shouldn’t have been surprising. If I was being truthful to myself, everything I had experienced that day I’d either seen through his eyes* or was cataloging to tell him about when I got home. Also, much of the time I was preoccupied with wondering whether he was doing okay in the flat by himself.

I’d planned on staying out of the house till dusk, but here it was only mid-afternoon and already I was back home, my heart in my throat. And not because I was worried for the state of the flat in my absence. This needed looking into, thinking about, analysing, before I stepped up into his presence and lost focus on myself.

I turned on my heel and walked into Speedy’s, ordered a cup of tea and sat down to think this through.

*Example:

Deduction: the chap who sold me the ice cream is recently divorced, probably because he’s gay. He is still not sure how to navigate being a single gay man yet, probably because he’s dealing with the shame and guilt drummed into him growing up Irish Catholic.

Evidence: his dialect, the celtic cross around his neck, the tan line on his left ring finger, the stamp for a prominent gay club on his hand—not fully washed off, the half-coy, half-apologetic grin he wore when he held my gaze a little too long.

**

(Day 47 cont'd)

I pulled out my pocket notebook and scribbled this into it:

“Okay, what is it that’s going on here?

You tell yourself you need autonomy, but then you have a really hard time maintaining it. You act like the closeness (both physical and subconscious) that you are engaging in is unwelcome when secretly it’s the one thing you want so badly it hurts. You think it is a bad thing to acknowledge how strong your need for someone else is. But why?

Is it because he’s your housemate? Your colleague? Your ~~best friend~~ only friend? (All of these seem okay reasons as to why you would need him so badly). Is it because there is no possible way he could need you as much as you need him? (Tough luck chappy, that’s how he works.)

Or is it because you think you are too strong for that kind of thing? (Well guess what, you git. You have shown for months now that this is the opposite of the truth.) Get it together and realize you are not Superman. If you have learned anything since the Fall, it’s that you have a weakness. And that weakness’s name is Sherlock Holmes.

And you will have to learn how to live with the fact that you have an intense need for him that is not going away. It’s been there for a very long time. You’ve only allowed yourself to acknowledge it for moments at intervals along the way, but it’s been there, staring you in the face, waiting for you to deal with it.

So it’s probably high time you addressed it. Get it out there. There are no other secrets anymore if you even know each other’s dreams. Might as well come clean on this too.

What’s the worst that could happen? (Oh, he could just be disgusted with your pitiful state and leave, is all, no big deal…)  
Have a little faith. You are also his best and only friend. And he has been quite solicitous of all your weird post Fall hangups so far…”

Bloody hell…

Okay, fine.

I closed the notebook, finished my cuppa, and summoned the courage to head upstairs.

**

(Day 47 cont'd)

The nerves started on the first step. His voice came trailing down to me on the fourth.

“Have a good time out in the wide world? Same as you remembered? What took you so long?” He was sounding tetchy, this wasn’t going to be fun.

“I told you I’d be gone most of the day. Can’t you entertain yourself for less than 8 hours?” I called up the stairs to him, taking my time actually arriving at the top and entering the flat.

“Whether I am able to or not has nothing to do with whether I should have to or not.” I rolled my eyes at this, as that was the only response it deserved.

When I finally entered the flat he was stretched out on the sofa skimming through the papers. I had a feeling it was at least his third time through them. He glanced up at me and noted the book in my hand.

“How can mystery novels possibly keep your attention? I will never understand it.”

“I will never expect you to try.”

“They are so boring once you’ve figured out the mystery. Why even bother slogging through the last 300 pages? What a nightmare.”

“Your belief in your superiority is the nightmare. Wish I could wake from that one.”

“Oh do shut up, John. No, wait, tell me why you didn’t answer my text. Didn’t you get it?” I cocked my head at him, puzzled, then checked my phone, frowning that I hadn’t heard its alert.

Come home. I need you. -SH

My nerves and reluctance, which were steadily being crowded out by annoyance, went completely out the window when I saw that message. Anger took everything over. Undoubtedly this was about something impossibly inane like he ‘needed’ me to find the telly remote for him. I seethed.

He saw my face change. “What now, for God’s sake?”

“You can be such a prat, you know that?”

“Stop insulting me and say whatever it is you need to so badly. You’ve been in the shop downstairs thinking about it for over an   
hour.” God, it made me angry when he used his deductions against me.

“Stop antagonizing me and I might be able to, you wanker!”

“Fine.” He settled his face into his most bored expression and I almost re-broke his nose. He was doing it on purpose, though I didn’t understand why. Whether it was to get a rise out of me or to keep his own feelings unreadable, I had no idea.

**

(Day 47 cont'd)

I stepped up to the sofa, took a deep breath and then let it all out before speaking. He deserved a legitimate answer and it’s what I came up to do. The anger was still flowing through my veins though, so it wasn’t going to be pretty. “For all your probing perception of them, you really don’t understand people very well at all, do you? Not their hearts at least.”

“I—”

“No, my turn. Don’t you dare text that you ‘need’ me. You don’t need me. Not like I need you. So don’t pretend like you do because it’s insulting. And the imbalance is difficult enough as is.” His mouth opened to say something and I just glared at him till he shut it. “You have cataloged my breathing patterns and my heart rate, you’ve graphed my REM responses to my nightmares, and now you can tap into my dreams, but do you actually understand how this situation makes me feel?”  
He looked at me as if he was asking permission to speak. I nodded.

“John, you tell me every day how you feel.” My face flushed at that. _How dare you._

“No, I don’t. You deduce things about my feelings from what I say, how I say it and my perceived state of mind when saying it. That’s different.”

“Not to me.”

“It should be.” _Of all people, to you it should be…_

“Well it isn’t. And it’s not like I’m the only person in the world who does this.”

“Fine. I’ll concede that point, but listen a moment. Imagine you have a heart.” He looked hard at me with an arched eyebrow. “All right, fine. That was a low blow. Imagine you have _my_ heart. With it’s predilections and habits. And one day you meet someone who is the exact opposite of your type, in every way, _every way_ , but who nonetheless is able to capture your attention. Completely and totally. At the expense of all other relationships. And yet, you don’t want this person. Or at least, you don’t want to want this person. Because it requires changing everything about your understanding of yourself as well as who you are attracted to. _And_ because you’d have no idea what to do with them once you had them. (that is, if they ever agreed to it…)” I clenched and unclenched my hands at my sides throughout this speech, one then the other, over and over.

“But then you realise it’s not that you _want_ this person, it’s that you _need_ them. Desperately. So much so that you actually are unable to function when they leave you. That you are, for all intents and purposes, addicted to them. And cold-turkey withdrawal nearly drives you insane.

“And then they come back, and you can finally get your fix again. But you come to understand that you are so addicted you actually cannot live without them anymore and you fear for your life if they ever lose theirs. What do you do then?”

“I do everything within my power to protect you. Every day.”

“Yes, but remember, you are me in this scenario, so that’s—”

“No, I’m me. Not hypothetically. This is what I do.” His voice was small, his eyes big. He pulled his knees up to his chin and hugged his shins.

**

(Day 47 cont'd)

My mind reeled at this. _Did he just say he…no._ “I don’t know what you—”

“Yes you do. But I’ll be as clear as I can because I need you to understand fully.” He reached out and took hold of my wrist, then pulled on it till I was sitting on the sofa near his drawn up feet. There was nothing in me to resist.

He continued in a voice stripped of any depth or strength, staring at his toes, a few inches from my thigh. “I do need you, John. I have needed you, like a drug—no, like medicine—for a long time and I have done everything humanly possible to keep you safe because I have no idea how to function without you. You are my most recent addiction. Before you it was cocaine. Before that, opiates. (nicotine is just for craving management.) And ‘Cold turkey’ after the Fall was hard for me too.

“Because you are the prescription that makes me work on a higher level of performance. Quite the opposite of a drug habit that pulled me under until I didn’t care about working at all.

“I am better at being myself because of you, and frankly, that’s kept me from a lot of the risky behaviours I used to indulge in. Honestly, if you think I am cavalier with my life now, you should have seen me three years ago.

“So when it comes down to it, you have saved my life, many times, just by being willing to endure my presence, as surely as you have done, with gun drawn or no, on countless cases. And I thank you wholeheartedly for that.” He hadn’t quite let go of my wrist throughout this speech, but on the last statement he drew his hand down till he was sort of holding mine, and squeezed it once before letting go. I had to keep myself from holding on.

Then I had to clear my throat in order to say, “God, Sherlock. You’re so much more than welcome.”

**

(Day 47 cont'd)

He smiled with his mouth but his eyes were trained on his toes. Or maybe my hand. Or maybe nothing. There was a silence.  
I saw him retreat inside for a minute, but when he seemed to return, I offered, “So, we’re even then.”

“Not quite. I have to save your life seven more times for it to be even.”

“I thought you said the number was ‘countless’.”

“Well…”

“And I think jumping off a building and faking your own death to save me counts for at least twelve.” His smile almost reached his eyes when I said that. “Besides, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” He flicked his eyes up to mine momentarily. “Mutual addiction must be a preferable situation to one-sided addiction, wouldn’t you think?”

“I would. It eases my mind quite a bit, actually.”

“Good. Now you can stop being so embarrassed about it.”

_Easier said than done._

“But Sherlock, it’s not just mutual addiction at this point. It’s mutual, I don’t know, not ESP, surely?”

His face lit up with focus and intelligence in a way that usually made me happy because it meant he was occupied. This time it made me nervous. “Yes, this is where it gets interesting. Because we don’t just need each other nearby to sleep, we are now participants in each other’s sleep.”

“That just doesn’t seem right.”

He got to his feet right where they were planted on the cushion next to me, reached back to grab the arm of the sofa and lowered his bum onto it, his legs stretched out, his feet still almost reaching my leg. “I’ve heard of it happening before, but usually in long term partnerships.”

“You mean old married couples don’t you?”

“Sort of, yes.” He crossed his arms and wiggled his toes at me. I didn’t grab at them to stop them moving, though they distracted me enough that I wanted to.

“Jesus. Don’t you ever tell Lestrade any of this. Ever. I mean it. He already jokes about us that way.”

“You know I don’t even plan to tell him I’m alive yet, let alone this bit of trivia.”

“Oh, I’m glad you don’t feel the need to take this seriously. Because it feels very fucked up to me.”

“I didn’t say I don’t take it seriously. Don’t jump to conclusions. Lestrade would treat it as trivia, I do not. I also don’t find it fucked up. I think it’s rather marvelous.”

“Because it’s a problem you get to solve.”

“That, and because it says something about the two of us that our thoughts—even our subconscious thoughts—can work in concert with each other.”

“What does it say?”

“I haven’t the fainest idea.”

And with that he hopped off the arm of the sofa and grabbed his violin. I slumped over onto my side, stretching across the space his legs had just inhabited, and listened to him play for the rest of the evening.


	8. Days 47 - 50: needed

(Day 47 cont'd)

After that talk I was able to regain some sort of calm. Which is something I hadn’t felt since before the Fall. One of the things I came back from Afghanistan with, aside from a hole in my shoulder, a limp in my leg, and more nightmare fodder than anyone could hold, was a constantly felt tension inside of me. Like something was being pulled almost to the point of snapping in two. Sometimes it bordered on physical pain, but most of the time it just made me feel a low level of anxiety—a fear of coming upon that breaking point at any moment. It felt as if my idle were set too high and if I didn’t have my foot placed firmly on the break, I was going to race forward without my own consent. Something was always whirring inside me, winding me up, keeping me from sleeping, from eating, from thinking straight. It caused me to be still, in a vain attempt to counterbalance so much activity.

And then I met Sherlock, who has one of his own high-idling demons, but his is deathly afraid of boredom. Probably because it is afraid of not having a purpose (though to be fair, I think that’s what mine is afraid of too).

In any case, once I was around Sherlock and was made aware of his constant tension—his need to be observing and thinking and deducing and solving and proving himself right—once I was in the presence of the perpetual motion machine that was soon to be my best friend, I found that witnessing his tension was enough to ease my own. As long as someone was tight as a violin string and humming, I knew things were being looked after. If it wasn’t me having to do it, so much the better. Being near the dynamo was enough.

He is the only person I have met that seems to always be on a higher alert of ‘constant vigilance’ than I am. This is why he takes the piss about my practice, because it’s laughable compared to his own. I don’t laugh since it’s because of him I could finally get some rest. I could let him be on overdrive and just be. I could sleep again (albeit with nightmares) I could enjoy a meal without feeling nauseated, I could actually hold my thoughts together again (though never on a level like his).

All I had to do was look out for him. Because when you are running at that speed, things fall by the wayside, even important things. People, their feelings, courtesy of any kind, you get the idea. I was finally grounded enough that I could look after these things for him, though. And it felt good. Not just productive, but necessary and helpful in a way I hadn’t been since being invalided. This is how he became my purpose, and I his doctor. The kind that knows their patient’s illness firsthand.

**

(Day 47 cont'd)

Thing is, when someone else is volatile enough that you always feel like you are in the line of fire which makes you able to feel that steadying calm in the face of it, when someone else is essentially keeping your panic at bay with their own manic tension, you come to simultaneously need their neurosis to feel healthy, and constantly fear for their own health, their own safety. So, though I was doing better than I had for some time being around Sherlock, my concern for his state of mind was ever-present. Still, I’d rather be always worried about him than always on the verge of bursting myself. The former was much more manageable, more solvable, than the latter.

But then he left me. And without him my own dynamo revved up again. And It was awful. I didn’t function right again for a long time. And yet somehow, when he came back, I spun faster instead of the opposite. It took until I allowed myself to be alone long enough to think straight, to not be wound up by his presence, before I could get to where I knew what needed to be done to ground myself. I had to acknowledge my addiction to him.

Granted, it helped to finally unwind me that Sherlock’s response to my outpouring meant that we were on the same page.  
Because once I didn’t have to feel ashamed of my addiction, (misery loves company and sometimes that’s all you need to keep from being miserable) I could calm down and stop spinning. I could breathe again and figure out how to manage our need better.

On a lot of levels we have been pretty functional addicts, really. Aside from a possible codependent situation and the standard kind of crazy only someone you spend too much time with can make you, I think we have done well.

I shouldn’t speak for him, I should say: ‘I have done well’. But really, on some levels that’s a complete lie. I fell the fuck apart when he was gone. I was definitely not doing well. But now that he’s back I feel okay, and now that I’m not crippled by the idea that everything is really uneven between us (though it’s still hard to believe it’s not), I’m feeling ship-shape.

**

(Day 47 cont'd)

I’m still totally dumbfounded by Sherlock’s admission, though. I mean, thinking back, it makes sense, but you wouldn’t really know it to look at him. I held my breath throughout his confession because I was sure he would draw back from admitting something so personal. Something with real emotion behind it. Not that I don’t think he has emotions, I know he does. I can also ‘deduce his feelings by what he says and how he says it’, and my perception of him is keen enough—is familiar enough with his infinite subtlety—to notice his emotional shifts even if others wouldn’t recognize them as such.

It’s not that he doesn’t have feelings, it’s that he fears them. I’ve seen it. It’s an almost palpable moment when he comes up against something emotional and seems to rear away from it, like a skittish horse. He backs off and shuts down for a moment, processing, or regrouping or something. I was pretty sure it was going to happen before he could finish speaking, but it happened right after. After he thanked me and I said ‘you’re welcome’. I’m not sure he knows I perceive these moments. I’ve of course never asked about them and he has never volunteered information about them. All I know is he is averse to ‘sentiment’ in himself and others and seems to ignore its existence completely. Which can lead to a lot of hurt feelings, even broken hearts. (Poor Molly…she endured a lot of his disregard for a long time.)

If I’m truthful with myself, knowing this was part of my fear around needing him. Worrying he would chalk it up to ‘sentiment’ and dismiss me out of hand. I’m still reeling from the fact that he didn’t.

**

(Day 47 cont'd)

Must be because the language we were using was not that of ‘sentiment’. Because need is not really an emotion, it’s a state of being characterized by dependence on something, a requirement. It’s beyond emotion. It’s not merely wanting something, it’s more imperative. You cannot question a need. You cannot mistake it for something that would be thought of as a weakness. Or at least a weakness in Sherlock’s mind. (And Mycroft’s. What that man must have done to his brother to strip him of his emotions, even his belief in their validity, drives me mad.)

My need, however, is an emotional one. At least, I have strong feelings about it. And I talk about it in an emotional way. And he still hasn’t dismissed me. So maybe that’s not quite it. Maybe he is figuring out how to access his emotions? Or at least working on not judging others for having them? I feel like he’s been more considerate of mine since coming back. Maybe sharing a bed, and dreams, is having a thawing affect on him?

That’s not quite fair. I’m not trying to say he is cold-hearted or anything. I don’t believe that. He just puts his intellect and anything he can process rationally before his heart and anything to do with feeling. But dreams are nothing if not irrational, and now his are at least partially filled with my emotions. We will see how this goes…

**

Day 48

Case in point:

The dream was devoid of terror, mundane, almost. But it broke me nonetheless. It was simply a replay of the aftermath of The Fall through the funeral and ended standing in front of SH’s grave, but the loss I felt was unbearable. It started with the loaded gurney rolling away from me on the sidewalk.

Took the wind out of me. Dropped me to the ground.

Tore at my chest, as if there were a tiny, needle-sharp demon wreaking havoc on my insides. The gaping hole it left was raw and burning. That was the main sensation I had throughout the funeral. By the end of it I tried to shut off all connection to the pain centers in my chest, though that made it very hard to remember to breathe. And didn’t stop my eyes from burning.

I stood alone staring at his name on the stone, not able to give in. Not ready to express the emotions, not willing to succumb to the pain, not ever going to doubt, even if that would have made it easier. Sherlock had never been easy, why would he start now?  
That thought, that moment, was the one where I broke. I had no breath for sobbing, but my entire torso and head were wracked and trembling like a pressure cooker ready to burst.

And then I did.

The wail came into being upon waking. I finally gasped in air and voiced the pain that was suffocating me, while at the same time trying to struggle free from whatever was binding my chest.

“Shhhh… It’s okay.” There was breath on my ear. His arm crooked around me, his chest up against my back, his nose touching my hair. The warmth he gave, the support, the words, were all so comforting I was able let go of the pain and calm down. One deep breath from me and one last murmured word of succor from him and I was falling back asleep…

…no, not asleep. awake. For real this time. I was on my back and Sherlock was leaning over me, studying my face.

**

(Day 48 cont'd)

“I saw it. Up close this time. I’m so sorry, John.” He looked a bit wrecked. He looked how I felt.

“Just now? Could you feel it?” The grief which had ebbed momentarily flowed through me once again, but not as torrentially, thanks to that comforting interlude. _Will have to think on that more later…_

“From the atmosphere and light and your body language and face I could deduce it. The pain was so raw on your features I couldn’t catch my breath looking at you.”

“My chest hurt so badly I couldn’t breathe.”

“Clearly. Not surprising, but a bit of a shock to witness first hand.” His expression, full of sympathy, concern and a hint of pain, was too much to look at.

I rubbed my furrowed brow instead. “When did I wake you?”

“Just at the end when you started to…make noise. I put my hand on your arm and you calmed down immediately. Even so, I decided to go through with waking you.” He sounded uncertain about his choice.

“Thanks. Sorry, again…”

“Don’t mention it.” He turned and lay down on his back next to me. Our shoulders weren’t touching but I could feel his body heat once more. _No, for the first time. Before didn’t happen._

I turned my head towards him. “What did you mean, ‘this time’?”

“I saw it all the first time, in real life, just not up close. After I jumped and mocked up a body with Molly, I kept my distance, but kept my eye on you. I now believe that no man should attend his own funeral, but at the time I thought it a smart idea to be on hand.” He grimaced. “It was a good thing I no longer had my phone or I couldn’t have kept myself from making corrections.” I smiled at this, as I had wanted to do the same. He turned to look at me but his eyes only got as far as my shoulder. “I felt helpless watching you grieve. I had to remove myself from the vicinity after your visit to the grave yard.”

My face flushed hot at the idea of him having seen me at that moment, even if I had been addressing him. Asking him for this miracle he had managed to pull off. I felt incredibly foolish. And used.

 

**

(Day 48 cont'd)

“It wasn’t for naught, you know. It wasn’t an experiment. It was to put Moran and them off the scent. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t let you know. You were the best alibi possible. If you believed it and were visibly suffering from it, no one would ever question that I was dead.”

“That sounds heartless.”

“You know I’m not.” His eyes glanced off mine as if to check.

“Yes.” I rolled up onto my side facing him, still not quite touching. “But being an invaluable aid in that way will never outweigh the sacrifice I was forced to make without knowing.”

“Without knowing what?” he met my eye, searchingly, but not without a hint of compassion.

“That it was a lie. That I was suffering over something that was not real.”

“It was real to you.”

“God yes, too much so.” I ran my hand through my hair trying to comb out the memories of grief.

“And it needed to be for that period of time. But I didn’t let it last any longer than necessary. In fact, I probably have ended your pain prematurely.”

“You sound like a torturer, assessing whether I’m broken yet.” My face took the shape of a mirthless grin.

His stayed completely serious. “But I’m the opposite. I tried to prevent the break. However, the reason for causing pain is still out there and I’m afraid we have jeopardized our chance to eradicate it by compromising my perfect alibi.”

I flopped back onto my back exhaling my exasperation. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. He was doing the same as he spoke. “Calculated risk, John. It means I’ve been _calculating_. Do enough calculations and the risk becomes negligible. I was paying attention. I wouldn’t have let it get too bad.”

I sat up at this, the weight of anger pulling on my gut, the acidic burn of resentment scouring my chest. He sat up next to me, looking at my face. I was looking at my hands.

“You didn’t drink yourself to death or shoot yourself, and you weren’t in more physical danger than usual. You can handle pain, John. You can live with it, not die from it.” He reached to put a hand on my shoulder, I jerked away from his grasp.

“But I shouldn’t have had to, Sherlock!” I turned my back on him, fuming, head in my hands.

“Don’t you _understand_?” He grabbed my shoulder from behind. His voice was not quite angry, but deep and urgent, faintly pleading, and again (not again) right at my ear. “I had to die for you, to save your life. You had to grieve for me to save mine.”

**

(Day 48 cont'd)

Every bit of tension was blown out of me, astonishment taking the place of all else. I fell limply back onto him, my shoulders landing on his pecs, the base of my skull resting on his collarbone. His jaw brushed mine as he made a tiny noise of surprise, and then froze. I couldn’t tell if it was one of those moments where he closes in on himself for a minute, or if he was just shocked at our closeness. I felt embarrassed but hadn’t strength enough to sit up yet, and he wasn’t pushing me away. I left my hands covering my face and my eyes closed as the flood of astonishment wore off and I was able to think clearly about what he’d just said.

We can’t help but try to save each other, it seems. It’s a matter of our own survival for each of us to keep the other from death. This ‘mutual addiction’ is really just being addicted to life, truth be told. Has he become so much of myself that protecting him is a simple matter of self preservation? I guess if he can dream my dreams with me, maybe so. Maybe he can be classified as part of me at this point. And I, him, presumably.

My thoughts were interrupted by a sense memory of the dream fragment I had woken from minutes before, when we were in these same positions but lying down with his arm around me, holding me close. I felt my heart quicken pace and my face flush. I hoped to God he hadn’t been inside that dream as well, though the idea of him not being there was also disturbing. I shouldn’t be dreaming about him when he’s not there. _Wow, that’s a strange thought, but that’s how our life works now, I guess…_

I banished the interrupting thoughts and the emotions attached to them and sat forward, turning to face him. He started tracing the coverlet. “I didn’t understand, till now. I’m sorry for being angry.”

“It’s all right. I most likely deserved it.”

“That Post-Fall dream just now was hard. The reality was harder. But they are both over. And I’m not mad at you.” He nodded, still not looking up. Embarrassed, maybe. Which made me feel so as well. _Maybe he **was** there for the comforting part? Ack._ “It’s almost light out, d’you want some coffee?”

“Yes, thanks.”

I got up and put on my dressing gown. As I left the room he curled up, covers to his chin, his back to the door. I couldn’t read what was going on with him, so I didn’t disturb him for much longer than it takes to make coffee.

**

Day 49

I didn’t ask him what was wrong, and I didn’t bring up either dream situation. Tried not to think about it either. Maybe that makes me a coward and maybe it makes me a good friend. I don’t know. Keeping things as close to normal as possible seems the most expedient way to not jeopardize our ability to interact. (oh dear, that sounds like him, not me, but it’s true.)

_I worry about what this stuff is starting to mean._  
I worry about the places our subconscious minds seem to want to go.  
Honestly, I worry that it will be too much for him, no matter what he says about needing me. 

That last concern hit me hard in the morning when he got up, dressed, and went out with only a dismissive ‘time for some legwork’ by way of explanation. Time was when he would never have left without me by his side.

I know it’s a cautionary thing, the both of us in one place is too dangerous, especially since I’m being watched. But damn, I miss it. And to add insult to injury, when he came home he wanted to talk the case through, but stalking Moran and his crew through the London underworld is more tedious than you’d think. And, having not been on the scene, I was slower on the uptake than usual. He gave me that look I can’t stand and then dismissed me completely when I took umbrage with it.

He grabbed his violin and started doing that thing where he doesn’t play it, he just picks at the strings in what seem to be an utterly random sequence. Until you stop trying to ignore it and realize there is a pattern and it’s on a very long loop. Even so, by the start of the third repetition I tend to be driven elsewhere, either to do the shopping or to spend time in a tea shop or just walking around.

This time, however, I settled in to create order from the harmonic chaos, to follow it like a phrase that was being played at the slowest speed the metronome can manage. It calmed me down and slowed my thoughts. I’m sure this is not the effect it has on him. I like to think of each pluck as a punctuation mark to a thought process.

There is an energy in the room when he is thinking like this, which is very different in tone than the one when he is tuned in and perceiving things, but no less able to impart a sense of great speed and surety of purpose. If his deducing, calculating, perceptive self is a BMW motorcycle on the Autobahn, his deeply pondering self (which this undoubtedly is) is more like a jet plane in the stratosphere. The motion of his thoughts is faster and smoother, with a longer trajectory, but also too far up to reach. And it takes him a lot longer to come down.

**

(Day 49 cont'd)

Anyway, I sat on the couch, my feet on the coffee table, and listened. Or, more accurately, I cleared my head and let the sounds of his not-quite-playing drip into me, creating a meditative state from which to draw images or ideas. I must have dozed off for a bit because I woke with a start when Sherlock broke his pattern and addressed me abruptly. “What?”

“Nothing. I think I was asleep.” I checked to see if I’d been drooling. Luckily I hadn’t.

“But what did you say?”

“How would I know that, if I was sleeping?” I took my stiff legs down off the coffee table with a wince.

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing…?”

“Are you sure?” He looked sharply at me, which rankled.

“No, but you’ve startled any memory of it out of my head.”

He made a noise of impatience, jerked his head away from me, gave up on his violin and paced to the window. “There is no reason I should believe you were dreaming of what I was thinking about…logically that is virtually impossible—”

“But so is everything else that’s been going on.”

“True, but I must have been mistaken in this case.”

I shifted to laying down on the couch and unfocused my eyes on the wallpaper, thinking about the rhythm that my body had found while he was plinking his strings. “Well, what did you think I’d said?”

“It’s inconsequential.” He turned away petulantly, drawing my eye to his profile.

“Tell me anyway.”

He paused at the window, deeply focused on his thoughts, deflecting any and all attention I might possibly direct his way, and by doing so, attracting every last iota of it that I could possibly wield. The shadow at his jaw deepened, which meant he was clenching it. Usually a good sign, but still necessitating patience. I fought against my desire to stare till he spoke, closing my eyes and trying to breathe myself back to violin-calm.

“Something about a motorcycle.”

“…It’s possible, I guess. Is that helpful somehow?”

“I don’t know. I’ll tell you in the morning.” And then he grabbed his coat and walked out the door.

It was hell trying to get to sleep without him.

**

(Day 49 cont'd)

To be honest, I didn’t get much sleep at all. I tried not to be worried and jealous and annoyed all at once, but I didn’t really succeed. I used to never pay attention to his nighttime habits when I slept upstairs except to assume they weren’t particularly healthy. However, since his return they have been very regular, and I had gotten very used to that. So much so that the idea of him not being in the bed when I attempted to fall asleep was quite foreign to my way of functioning. And clearly, I’m not really functional when he’s not there.

I just couldn’t get comfortable. Which seems absurd since even when he is in the bed he has nothing to do with my personal comfort. But nothing felt right. And then I got upset with myself for not being able to get to sleep without him, which just made it harder to do so.

And of course, the moment I finally dropped off, he came home. He was stealthy and quiet as per usual, even succeeded in getting into the room and undressed without waking me, but the moment his weight dipped the mattress I was sitting up, squinting for his form in the darkness.

“I didn’t mean to wake you…”

“I’m not sure you did. It’s fine.” I moved over to make room because I’d been crowding his side of the bed.

“Have you not slept at all then?” He slid under the covers into his familiar spot.

“I don’t know. Is it late?” I lay back down trying to make out his face.

“Technically it’s early.”

“I don’t want to know. Let’s just pretend I’ve slept.”

“It won’t make you any less tired.”

“No, but it will make it easier to get back to sleep.”

“If you say so.” He pulled the covers up and hunched down.

“Glad you are home safe.” I turned over and curled up facing away from him.

“Me too. Good night.”

“G’night.” A settling pause. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Anything come of the motorcycle?”

“No.” I frowned in disappointment. “But there was something to be learned from a jet plane…”

I was glad it was dark so my grin didn’t attract comment.

**

(Day 49 cont'd)

As he drifted off, my mind filled with the sounds of motorcycles and jet planes. The rhythm of his thoughts.

How _did_ that happen? Did he read my mind when I was unconscious? Did I talk in my sleep? Was it just a coincidence of thought patterns? Or are our brains now totally hardwired together?

No. that last one cannot be true. More likely the one previous. We are connected, clearly, so maybe our brains are just picking up on the same stuff.

I was pretty sure this connection was confined to dream world, though…

God, why am I trying to analyse something that is one: not just mine to figure out, and two: something that defies analysis? I should just let it alone.

But for some reason I want to think this thing through, maybe because for some reason this particular brand of overlap doesn’t make me as nervous…why is that?

Probably because this feels more like how our brains used to function in concert all the time. I mean, not that I was anywhere close to him intellectually, but there were moments in conversation around a case where I’d say something that would let fall into place a new piece of the puzzle in his mind.

How did he phrase it? Something about not being ‘luminous’ myself, but being a good conductor of light. As back-handed as it was, it was still a very high compliment coming from him. And I took it as such (if a mite grumpily).

And, I have to admit, I was somewhat proud of that ability. Because it had to do with trust and respect. Things he clearly doesn’t dole out to all and sundry. Or anyone, really. Not his brother, not even Lestrade, so much (maybe Molly, on a small scale…). Not to the extent he does for me. I try not to let it go to my head, but I believe I am unique in that way, for him. And it feels good.  
Though, to be honest, it goes both ways. He is unlike any other person in my life too. I mean, clearly, he is a true original, but even in the role he fills for me, and the trust and respect I give to him. I don’t have a good word to describe that role. I never have.

He’s struggled with descriptions too, I know. Who am I to him? Nobody. A flatmate. A colleague. A friend. A blogger. A…what? An assistant? A handler? A sidekick? A care-taker? A stimulator of genius? A partner? A liability? A target to be saved? A dupe? A mourner? An advocate? A live-in…?

It feels undefinable. Because it’s, he’s…well, he’s Sherlock, isn’t he? And I’m John. And somehow, we work. Like it’s never worked for either of us before.

What else is there to figure out?


End file.
